


Feather and Arrow

by EveryDarkCorner



Series: SladeRobin Week Stories [9]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Amputation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Nice Slade, No Lube, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Soulmates, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, soul marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-01-07 14:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 49,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: When Crown Prince Dick Grayson is taken captive by mercenary Slade Wilson, they are each forced to question their loyalties.  It's a shame - you don't get to choose your soul mate.





	1. Collars

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really, reeeealllyyyy wanted to do SladeRobin Week properly this year. But real life has been dropping comical Acme anvils on my head for the last month, so for the sake of my sanity ... I'm going to do one chapter a week. Each chapter of this fic will fulfil another prompt for SladeRobin Week, just like Blank White Spaces (y'know, before it spiralled out of control :p).
> 
> People waiting for Bad Things Happen prompts - you are not forgotten! I've noted your requests down and I'll get to you soon. :)
> 
> This chapter is Day 1: Collars.

The collar was nothing short of overkill.

It bit into Dick’s throat, tugging on the back of his neck as the guard up ahead yanked the chain connected to the loop at Dick’s clavicle. He imagined the silver band of metal glinting in the dark stone hallway, catching the gold light of the torches. He shuddered, twisting his bound hands behind him. The rope at his wrists burned, chafing the sensitive skin of his soul mark.

The guards either side of him tightened their grips on his arms. A warning.

Not that Dick needed it. Not in Nanda Parbat.

Not that _they_ needed the guards and the chains and the collar.

Not the goddamn arrow still in his leg.

It burned. Blood, hot and sticky, trailed down his calf, dripping into his boot. He gritted his teeth, trying not to tremble despite the cold creeping through his skin. The sick lurch in his stomach every time the guards forced him to lift his foot. He stumbled every other step, leaning heavily on the black-uniformed guards, hoping it pissed them off.

If he looked down, he’d see the black fletchings sticking out his calf.

He didn’t look down.

He didn’t want to vomit again.

The guard tugging—pointlessly—at Dick’s collar reached a grand, towering set of doors, and shouldered through them. Dick limped into Ra’s al Ghul’s throne room.

A blizzard battered the tall windows behind the throne, howling over the mountains. The room was dark and grey, like all the colour had been drained away. Except the golden glow of the of the fireplace where Ra’s stood, warming his hands.

Dick’s gut clenched.

Ra’s al Ghul. The traitor. The war-monderer. The man responsible for so many villages burned in Gotham Kingdom, the homes reduced to grey powder and melted cooking pots. Blazes Dick had seen from the high tower in Gotham Castle: red hazes on the distant horizon.

Maybe Ra’s had warmed his hands over them, too.

Dick clenched his fists. _His sword. Where was his sword?_ One swing and the war would be over. He tightened his fists behind him, hissing as the ropes cut deeper into his soul mark.

Footsteps rang behind him, and another man in black strode past Dick. Taller than the guards, with an eyepatch and a white beard, and Dick’s sword at his hip. Dick snarled as he stepped close, but the man only glanced down with a smirk, fingering the bow slung over his shoulder. At his other hip hung a quiver of familiar sleek, black arrows. Dick’s leg panged.

He set his teeth, clenching his jaw until they creaked, and glowered at the man who’d shot him.

Ra’s turned as the man approached. With the fireplace behind him, he seemed to glow at the edges. ‘Ah, Slade.’ He glanced at Dick and smiled, spreading his hands as though this was all a pleasant surprise. ‘I see we have a guest.’ His eyes flicked down to the black arrow still sticking out of Dick’s leg. His smile became sharp. ‘And I see you hit your mark.’

‘I always do.’ Slade stepped closer to the fire. He knelt, but then rose without waiting for Ra’s to give the order. His armour was dark leather; battered, but well-fitted. Not the usual Nanda Parbat fare. A mercenary, then. ‘This is Richard Grayson.’

Ra’s al Ghul’s eyes widened, his stare roving up and down Dick’s body. Taking in the torn chemise; the bloody trousers; the stained doublet. The collar. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘just what Lord Wayne would give up for his own son’s safe return?’ He straightened, squaring his shoulders as he stepped away from the fireplace towards Dick. ‘I believe Grayson has a soul mark on his wrist?’ He glanced at Slade, who nodded. ‘Release his hands. Let me see.’

The guards hesitated only a moment before slicing through the rope binding Dick’s wrists. Dick sighed in relief, aching shoulders finally allowed to relax. But before he could bring his hands forward to rub at his sore skin, Ra’s snatched his arm and jerked it up.

Dick closed his free fist, ready to swing a punch—

The guards gripped his arm, wrenching it up behind him.

He snarled, tugging, but the guards held firm, and every movement sent spikes of pain up through his elbow, into his shoulder. Ra’s barely raised an eyebrow as Dick hissed and snarled; he shoved Dick’s sleeve back, and twisted his arm over.

And smiled at the soul mark.

A grey feather, imprinted into the skin on the underside of Dick’s wrist. It’d been soft as mist when he was a child, indiscernible. As he grew older, it darkened, the shape growing clearer.

Your soul mark was said to represent your very self. When he was younger, Dick longed for a sword, or possibly a crown. Something strong and noble. But the feather felt right. Felt like _him_.

Ra’s ran his thumb over the mark. Quick at first, as if to test it wasn’t ink. Then again, slower, his bony fingers soft and dry, as if he was trying to feel the delicate fronds of the feather. As if he was willing it to bloom into colour, to merge with whatever soul mark he had of his own, hidden somewhere on his body, to tie Dick to him permanently.

Dick shuddered. But the soul mark—thank god—remained as cool and grey as ever, and finally Ra’s let him go and stepped back.

‘Richard Grayson indeed.’ He tapped his finger against his lip. ‘Yes, I do wonder what Lord Wayne would be willing to do for you …’

_Lord Wayne._

Dick’s blood burned. How dare they—_how dare they—_

‘Kill me,’ he spat, ‘and you’ll find out just what _King Wayne_ will do for his sons.’

But Ra’s rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t kill what we can ransom. However …’ He looked up over his shoulder at Slade, who still hovered by the fire. ‘I presume you’ll be wanting a reward for his capture?’

Slade’s lip twitched. He tilted his head. ‘You know me so well.’

Ra’s nodded. ‘Well then. As you caught him, you may have him.’

Dick’s stomach plummeted. _No._

Slade’s single eye narrowed. ‘Your majesty?’

It was phrased like a question, but Dick couldn’t help feeling there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. As though he didn’t truly acknowledge the title any more than Ra’s acknowledged Bruce’s kingship.

Shivers crept up through Dick’s skin and he couldn’t fight them off. The heat of the fireplace couldn’t penetrate his skin. He couldn’t—Ra’s _couldn’t_—

Ra’s smiled thinly. ‘Don’t kill him, and try not to ruin his face beyond recognition. Otherwise, do as you like.’ He waved at the guards. ‘Take the boy to Slade’s quarters.’

Dick was floating. Sinking. Drowning. Chains rattled at the collar tightened, pinching his skin, but he couldn’t move. _No. _The guards turned him around. He staggered, unfeeling. His mouth was dry as ashes. They couldn’t do this. It wasn’t—wasn’t _allowed_. There were _rules_. Bruce had taken prisoners, dozens of them, and he never—he _would_ never—

_ You’re not with Bruce anymore._

Heavy footsteps rang across the throne room. An arm slid under Dick’s, pushing the guard away. Gripping him tight. ‘I’ll take him.’

Dick shuddered at Slade’s breath, tracing through his hair. At the heat of Slade’s hand gripping his arm. A moment’s pause, and the guard on Dick’s other side slipped away. The chain clinked at his throat, and the collar twisted as Slade wound the metal links around his own fist. His quiver bumped against Dick’s hip.

His quiver … his quiver full of arrows. Sharp arrows.

Dick reached down, hand trembling. Grab one. Stab him. _Run._

Behind him, Ra’s chuckled. As if Slade’s eagerness to claim his reward was funny. As if Dick’s stomach wasn’t somersaulting; as if Dick’s heart wasn’t threatening to burst through his chest. As if Dick wasn’t about to be—to be—enslaved—_tortured_—

Dick’s fingers traced the soft, dark feathers of an arrow.

Slade jerked him forwards a step. And Dick, unthinking, stumbled forward, and landed his full weight on his burning, bleeding leg.

He’d have screamed, if he could draw breath. Fire blazed up his leg. Shattered his bones. Peeled his skin from his flesh. His throat tightened and he was going to vomit, his stomach flipping and twisting and—

The chain glittered at the edge of his vision, trailing from his throat to Slade’s fist, as his vision darkened.

He blacked out.


	2. Soul Mates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for the Day 2 prompt from SladeRobin Week: Soul Mates.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone who read and commented on the last chapter. <3 I was so eager to do SRW this year but really worried about not being able to do it all in that one week. So I'm really glad you enjoyed Chapter 1 even though it was late!

Wind moaning against the windows. Solid grip around his shoulders and knees. Smell of sweat, and old leather.

Groaning, Dick opened his opened his eyes. Gold light whirled past—a torch on the wall—and the dark stone ceiling tipped and tumbled. He closed his eyes again. The arms holding him tightened. Leather creaked.

His leg burned.

The click and groan and slam of a door. Heat and crackle of a fireplace. And then—

He sank into warm furs, his head dropping into pillows. He tried to breathe slow, because they wouldn’t lay him down so gently if they meant to hurt him. When he opened his eyes again, the room remained steady. Red curtains draped from dark wooden bedposts overhead, flickering with shadows from the fireplace somewhere at his feet.

The collar tugged at his throat.

Dick hissed, hands jerking up automatically to prise the metal off. As he moved, the arrow in his leg caught on something—blankets, maybe—and _twisted_. Stars burst in Dick’s vision. He yelped, gripping the furs beneath him. _Breathe. Breathe._ He focused on the curtains. On the dark stone ceiling. On being here, in this room, right now. _Don’t pass out again._

‘Relax. I’m not going to throttle you.’

A hand closed around Dick’s injured leg, just over the ankle, far enough from the arrow not to graze it. Still, pain spasmed down his shin. Dick snarled as the hand lifted his leg, sliding something underneath him before setting his leg back down. This must be how it felt to thrust your leg in the fire. To watch the skin blister and peel away. To watch the fat drip down into the hot coals.

Gritting his teeth, Dick looked down.

Slade bent over him, arranging a towel under Dick’s injured leg.

_This must be his bed._

Dick’s heart shot into his throat. His stomach twisted and he realised, with numbing horror, that the tug at his throat was Slade lifting the chain. Tying him down. He reached up, groping, and—yes, there was the chain, at the back of his neck. Looping up and through a hole in the decorative headboard before disappearing out of sight.

_Chained to his bed._

Dick drew back his good leg, and snapped a kick into Slade’s chest.

His boot connected with a hard, dull thud. Slade staggered back, snarling, his single sharp eye snapping up to Dick’s face. And if not for that leather armour, Dick was certain he’d have heard the satisfying snap of a cracked sternum.

He lurched. _Get up. Run._

The collar yanked him back.

Dick slumped, spluttering, fingers crawling under the cold metal bar. There was a clasp, somewhere. A lock. If he could prise it loose …

‘That was a good kick.’ Slade didn’t wheeze, but he did at least sound a _little_ out of breath. ‘I’m almost impressed.’ He straightened, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘Do you want a drink?’

Dick’s snarled retort fizzled, like a torch dunked in water. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Drink.’ Slade mimed lifting a cup to his lips. ‘Are you thirsty.’ When Dick failed to reply, he snorted. ‘I’m having one.’

Eyeing him warily, Dick ran his tongue over his teeth. His _dry_ tongue. Because damn, yes, he hadn’t noticed how desperately thirsty he was, between getting shot and taken hostage and dragged up to this castle. ‘Yes?’

Slade peeled his gloves off. His hands were tan and weather-beaten; scars lined his knuckles. A flash of black bisected his palm.

_Soul mark._

An old one, by the darkness of it. No longer grey but fully black, staining his skin. Like Dick—like most people—he’d clearly never found his soul mate.

Slade crossed the room—even turned his back, the arrogant bastard—and opened a cupboard to dig something out. Dick twisted, searching every inch of the room. Small window in the corner—too small to climb through. Fire blazing—no crawling up through the chimney. And just the one locked door. Slade’s bow leaned beside it, along with his quiver full of black arrows, and—

‘My sword.’ Dick straightened, then hissed as his leg pulsed in protest.

Slade laughed, short and sharp. ‘I’m not giving you that.’ Goblets clunked on top of the cupboard; liquid poured. He touched his chest again. ‘You seem capable of enough damage without it.’

He turned, a goblet in each hand, and stepped closer before holding one out for Dick.

Dick hesitated. ‘What is it?’

‘Wine,’ Slade said. Then, when Dick failed to reach for the goblet, he lifted it to his own lips and took a swig. He lowered it with a sigh. ‘Cheap wine.’ He tilted his head, offering the drink again. ‘You can relax. I’m not going to poison you.’

Dick took the goblet.

Slade drew his hand back, but not fast enough for Dick to miss his soul mark. An arrow. A crooked, black arrow, shooting from Slade’s wrist up towards his fingertips. Dick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. To glance down at the fletching sticking out of his own bleeding leg. _Of course._

He sipped the wine. Grimaced.

Slade was right. It _was_ cheap.

Slade laughed again. ‘Sorry, Your Highness. It is strong, at least.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Slade said, catching his expression. ‘But that wound will fester if I don’t take the arrow out.’ He nodded at Dick’s leg, and then grimaced into his own goblet of wine. ‘You want a couple of these in you before I start.’

Dick set his jaw. ‘You’ve got me—got me locked in here—and you’re not going to _hurt me_? You’re not going to—going to—’

His clenched his free hand in the fur thrown over the bedsheets. Wolf pelt, or maybe bear. The bed that suddenly wasn’t so comfortable. The bed that he was _chained to_.

Slade’s eye narrowed. But then he sighed, and his expression softened. ‘I don’t need a terrified little princeling to entertain me.’ He snorted. ‘Besides, I’d rather avoid the wrath of Wayne, if I can help it. I’ll keep you alive until we can sell you back to him. That’s all.’

Dick swallowed. ‘Then why—?’

A thin, sardonic smile. ‘Ra’s has his own reasons for not paying me in gold.’ Slade’s single eye roved the walls. ‘Keeping me here, for a start.’ His gaze flicked back to Dick, and he lifted his goblet. ‘Drink up.’

Propping himself up on the pillows, Dick returned the sardonic toast. He downed the wine in a couple of gulps, and let Slade pluck it out of his hand to pour more.

He let out a breath. Perhaps Ra’s al Ghul was happy to flout the rules of chivalry, but at least Slade seemed to remember why they were important. Because Slade was right. If anything happened to Dick, Bruce was hunt down the bastards responsible. Bruce _and_ Dick’s brothers, who if anything had twice the fury and half the restraint.

Slade turned back to Dick with fresh drinks. ‘I’ll take that chain off, if you swear not to kick me again.’

Dick took the proffered drink—although the first had really done nothing for his dry mouth. ‘You’re not going to keep me chained up?’

‘There’s a perfectly good lock on the door,’ Slade said. ‘And you’re not going anywhere with that leg, much less with the storm outside.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, your easiest road home is to sit there in my bed and recover until Ra’s is ready to trade you.’

Swallowing, Dick nodded. ‘All right.’

He tensed as Slade stepped closer, free hand curled into a fist, ready to swing. But Slade stepped past him, reached up for the padlock, and loosened it with the click of a tiny key, which vanished back in his pocket as he stepped back. Dick released a breath, reaching back to draw the chain out through the loop on his collar. Each link rang, like tiny bells, as it slipped free and coiled on the pillow.

‘I’d take the collar off if I had the key,’ Slade said.

Dick mumbled in thanks. But a small, cynical part of him was pretty sure Slade also just wanted to make sure it’d be easier to lock him back up again, if he ever revoked that promise about the kicking. Because like hell was Dick going to sit here and do nothing, while Ra’s prised some important asset out of Bruce’s hand in exchange for him. What would he demand? Land? Money? _Surrender_? Dick shuddered.

But for now, Slade was right. No point tying to run on a busted leg, with a blizzard raging outside. So he settled into the pillows, and sipped his wine, and tried not to flinch every time Slade moved.

Slade waited until Dick’s head was pleasantly fuzzy to get the arrow out. He tore through Dick’s blood-stiffened trousers, knife glinting in the firelight, ripping the ruined fabric away to get at the wound underneath. Dick breathed slowly, watching Slade, hands shaking despite the wine.

‘I hoped to do this while you were out cold,’ Slade admitted, tossing the scraps away. ‘My arrows are barbed. I’ll have to push it through.’

‘Bastard.’ Dick swallowed, watching the blood trickle from his calf, seeping into the towel beneath it.

Slade curled his fingers around the arrow, moving so slowly and so gently Dick didn’t feel it shift. His other hand rested on Dick’s leg, just above his knee. Pinning him in place. Dick gritted his teeth.

Slade shoved the arrow in.

Screaming. Red haze. And pain and pain and _pain_, blazing through his leg, tearing through his flesh, scalding and burning and blistering. Dick jerked; the collar still round his neck jumped up and thumped into his Adam’s apple. But Slade kept his leg pinned, even as Dick thrashed and sobbed, gripping the furs beneath him.

‘That’s the worst over.’ Slade’s hand lifted off Dick’s leg. ‘Take a breath.’

He tried, but air just wouldn’t fill his lungs. Dick gasped and shook, eyes squeezed closed. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to glance down and see the arrow now bursting out the other side of his leg, the barbed triangular arrowhead dripping with blood.

A crack. Dick hissed, another jolt shaking his body. But it was just the arrow—Slade had snapped the head off.

‘Almost done.’

A sharp, sickening, burning sensation. Dick screamed, turning his head to bury his face in the pillows. He lay there, trembling all over, cold all the way through. As if all the warmth in his body had flooded to his leg; his burning, throbbing, bleeding leg. He fought not to move as Slade fetched a kettle of hot water from the fireplace and washed the blood away; packed the wound with a foul-smelling yellow-green poultice; padded it with clean rags and bandaged it up.

Slade yanked the knot tight. ‘Done.’ He slid his hands away. Water splashed as he washed them. ‘You still with me, Your Highness?’ That sarcasm crept in again as he used the honorific.

‘Fuck you,’ Dick groaned. ‘Fuck you for shooting me, and fuck you because that wine didn’t help at all.’

Slade laughed. ‘Sounds to me like you just need another drink.’ His hand trailed over Dick’s knee, his touch soft and fleeting. Like he thought better of the contact as soon as he made. ‘C’mon, up you get.’

Blinking, Dick swallowed, and reached up to take his hand. To let Slade pull him upright. Another drink … he’d probably earned the rest of the bottle. He didn’t notice his sleeve falling back.

Until Slade’s hand closed on his wrist.

His soul mark flared.

He yelped, trying to flinch away. But Slade’s fingers locked around him, tight as shackles, and he couldn’t pull free. Fiery heat spread up his arm, sinking deep into his skin. And it didn’t hurt, not like the arrow in his leg, but it burned. A sweet, almost sinful heat, like strong liquor on the back of his throat. Gasping, Dick looked up into Slade’s face.

He was grey, his eye wide and cold and panicked.

His hand shook around Dick’s wrist.

And Dick couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He was falling, trembling, drowning. The pain in his leg faded to an ache, and then warmth, and then nothing. The dark walls and the bed and the fireplace peeled away, and the only thing left on Earth was Slade. Slade’s calloused fingers against his skin. Slade’s shocked, ragged breathing, a low growl on every exhale. Slade’s scent; the combined sweat and leather and cheap wine on his breath—

Dick lunged, gripping Slade’s shoulder. Needing him closer. Because _it’s him, it’s the other half of me, it’s my soul mate—_

They came apart like ice breaking.

Slade wrenched his hand away, staggering back with a snarl. Dick tumbled back against the pillows, heart pounding, skin hot and click with sweat, mouth dry and open and panting.

He lifted his arm. Stared at his wrist. His soul mark. The feather.

The … _blue_ feather.

Colour bloomed across it as he watched, each front soft and perfect, so real he thought it might float away if he tipped his arm. It was dark as the deepest ocean, bright as the clearest cobalt, soft as the palest dawn. And through it, another shape appeared. It pierced the base feather, weaving in and out of the fronds before bursting out at the edge of Dick’s palm.

An arrow. A dark, coppery arrow.

He touched it with cold, shaking fingers. Sparks burst over the sensitive mark and he hissed, yanking his hand back. It felt raw. Like stripped skin.

Slowly, achingly, he forced himself to look up at Slade.

Across the room, Slade hunched his shoulders, gasping for breath. He stared into his palm, face ashen. Then, as if sensing Dick’s stare, he turned his hand slowly, holding it up for Dick to see.

The same arrow, copper now, tearing through a blue feather. Dick’s feather.

The same soul mark.

And he voiced Dick’s feelings exactly.

‘_Shit._’


	3. Everything Has a Price

Across the room, Slade lowered his hand. His curled his fingers into a fist. Winced. Flexed them open again, as if it hurt.

And Dick stared, and stared, and didn’t move.

_Soul mate._

His head spun. Beside Slade, the fire crackled. A log popped, shooting up sparks.

_Soul mate._

Slade tilted his head back against the wall, sighing, slow and shaky. His throat flashed as he swallowed, and heat shot through Dick’s body. He imagined running his fingers down the column of Slade’s neck. Tracing over his collar, his chest, his stomach. Running his tongue over that bared patch of skin, and then following his hand down and down—

He clenched his teeth, shivering. Aching.

_Soul mate._

He pushed himself towards the end of the bed.

‘_Don’t._’ Slade’s voice was like the crack of another log in the fireplace. He lowered his chin, eye flashing like silver. Softer, he added, ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

But the pain in Dick’s leg was nothing. It was smoke. The tingling in his fingers, the ache in his belly, the _need_ to sink his teeth into skin—that was _fire_. How could Slade look so calm? So in control? Dick wanted to scream.

He clenched his jaw. ‘How can you—’

Slade’s hand shifted on the fireplace. His hand _without_ the soul mark. His fingers tightened on the edge of the mantel, knuckles whitening, the stone practically cracking in his grip.

Holding himself back.

Dick let out a breath. Oh.

He closed his eyes. Tried to cool the fire under his skin with slow, deep breathing. And—ah—yes, there was that pain in his leg. Slowly returning, thudding and insistent, as if to punish him for daring to move and disturb it. He opened his eyes, staring down at the clean bandages.

He had a soul mate.

He _couldn’t_ have a soul mate. He was prince, for god’s sake. The crown prince of Gotham. Bruce had about thirty girls lined up as potential matches for Dick—potential future queens—and whichever one Dick married would have to be wealthy and accomplished and politically advantageous. Not some _mercenary_ working for _Ra’s al Ghul_. Some mercenary twice Dick’s age, who shot him in the leg the instant he saw him.

Slade shot him. _Slade_ shot him.

_His soul mate shot him._

Laughter hit him like a punch. He doubled over, hand to his mouth, half-hysterical between the pain and the shock and the heat still simmering just beneath his skin.

Slade shifted, single eye narrowing. ‘What’s funny?’

‘You shot me,’ Dick gasped. ‘You _shot me_. You shot your soul mate and if your arrow landed just a bit higher you’d never have known. You almost killed your own soul mate.’

The lines around Slade’s eyes smoothed. His lips even twitched into an almost-smirk. ‘If I’d meant to kill you, Your Highness, you’d be dead.’

The honorific, in that same sarcastic tone, stung in a way it hadn’t before.

‘Don’t call me that.’ Dick leaned forward. ‘You’re my soul mate. Everything—it’s all different—’

‘Nothing is different.’ Slade pushed off the fireplace, sauntering across the room to the end of the bed, where he leaned against the bedpost. His posture was casual, but Dick could see the tendons standing out in his neck, like he was having to tense every muscle in his body to keep from coming any closer—from crawling across the bed over Dick’s body and—and— ‘No one needs to see these marks. I’ll keep you alive until Wayne takes you back. Then we’ll never have to see each other again.’

Dick spluttered. ‘Never have to—are you crazy? We’re soul mates!’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Slade’s single eye flicked to the door. But there was no sound outside; no footsteps or voices. No one was listening. He turned back to Dick, speaking in a hiss. ‘If Ra’s sees these—’ he lifted his palm, flashing the soul mark, ‘—we’re both fucked.’

Dick shook his head; not disagreeing, but trying to wrap his head around it. ‘But—’

‘All I want,’ Slade said, slowly, pronouncing every syllable with deadly clarity, ‘is to get my payment, leave this damn country, and retire in the deepest, darkest woods I can find. I can’t do that if Ra’s al Ghul is holding you over my head. Or if he _does_ send you back to Wayne, how would you enjoy Ra’s putting a knife to my throat, using me to control you?’ His mouth twitched, and Dick wasn’t sure if he was restraining a smile or a scowl. ‘You strike me as a honourable type. I doubt you’d let Ra’s kill me for the good of Gotham.’

Dick flinched. ‘I won’t _let_ Ra’s kill anyone.’

Slade shook his head. ‘As if you weren’t enough of a bargaining chip; now Ra’s has two hostages.’ He closed his fist, hiding the soul mark. And this time, he didn’t loosen it. ‘We tell no one. We hide our marks. Ra’s will trade you back to Wayne; I’ll take my money and leave.’

Dick glared. ‘You can’t just _leave_ your soul mate.’

People didn’t do that. When you found your soul make, you _celebrated_. God, when Bruce found Selina, Gotham partied for a week. Flags lined the streets and the cobbles were buried under flowers and petals. Dick had never drunk so much in his life.

To meet your soul mate, and then just—

Just—

‘I’ve managed this long without you. I’ll live.’ Slade scoffed. ‘You’ve only known me for a few hours, and I doubt they’ve been pleasant for you. Do you honestly want me for a soul mate?’

_No._ Dick bit his tongue. The answer was obvious. This man—this mercenary—was objectively the worst person he could have for a soul mate, short of Ra’s al Ghul himself. Hell, even Ra’s might be better—that might end in some political marriage alliance, at least, and stop the war. Much as the idea made his skin crawl.

But instead he murmured, ‘You don’t get to choose.’

Slade didn’t respond. Didn’t move. And as Dick looked up into his face, he couldn’t help the impression that Slade was holding back again. Practically clinging to the bedpost.

Finally, Slade sighed, looking up at the small window. Only a little light filtered through now, grey and soft. ‘The sun’s setting. You need rest.’ He turned away, thumping down in a chair by the fire. ‘You can keep the bed. I wouldn’t want Wayne complaining his delicate son was mistreated.’

_We could share._

But the ‘delicate’ comment hackled Dick enough that he didn’t say it, even jokingly. He shifted back up to the pillows in silence, before squirming under the blankets. He lay back, heart still thumping, watching the firelight flicker and dance on the ceiling.

He swallowed. Slade wanted money. He wanted money and—_Ra’s has his own reasons for not paying me in gold._ That was what he’d said.

Ra’s was keeping him here. Refusing to pay him. Probably until the war was over.

Maybe forever.

Dick bit his lip. ‘Slade?’

A grunt in response.

‘If you want money, King Wayne has plenty.’ Dick waited for laughter, or a sarcastic comment. When he got neither, he propped himself up on the pillows. Slade watched him, a shadowy bulk by the fireplace, single eye glinting. ‘I don’t want Bru—King Wayne—to have to trade for me. I don’t want him to give Ra’s an inch. Help me escape back to Gotham, and King Wayne will find your retirement. Hell, he’ll can build you your own castle in that deep, dark forest if you want.’

Slade was quiet for a long, tense moment, breathing softly, staring at Dick like a hawk watching a mouse. ‘Are you suggesting I betray my king?’ His mouth twitched. ‘That’s surprisingly ignoble of you.’

‘You’re a mercenary. You don’t have a king.’ Dick shot back. ‘Everything has a price, right? That’s how you work? You already said Ra’s is avoiding paying you. Maybe he won’t _ever _pay you. So if Bruce’s price is higher …’

Again, Slade was achingly quiet—a good sign. A sign he was thinking it over. Thinking of agreeing.

But—

‘The price has to be worth the risk,’ Slade finally said. ‘Getting you out of Nanda Parbat would be nearly impossible even at peak health. With your injury …’ He sat back, tilting his head. ‘Ra’s would catch us, and execute me for disloyalty. Dead men don’t get paid.’ He let out a breath, which might have been soft laughter. ‘Sorry, Your Highness. You’d better get comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.’

Dick huffed, slumping back into the pillows. He felt like firing back that he wouldn’t _have_ this injury if not for Slade, but what good would that do? Slade was his only ally in this damn castle.

He turned over, tugging the blankets with him, wincing at the sharp pang in his leg at the movement. As Dick’s eyes drifted closed, he imagined Slade’s chest pressed against his back. Slade’s mouth at the back of his neck. Slade’s arm, a heavy weight over his ribs. He shivered. Fuck, he wanted to get up. To take Slade’s wrists and _drag_ him to bed.

_It’s the soul mark._

They’d just bonded. Of course his instincts were screaming to rip Slade’s clothes off. But knowing that didn’t stop heat flushing through Dick’s body, in wave after burning wave. His cock twitched and he ignored it, because like _hell_ was he giving in and touching himself with Slade sitting right there across the room, silent and composed.

He fell asleep with his arms drawn in tight, cradling his soul mark to his chest.


	4. Nice Slade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for your patience while I sorted this chapter out! <3
> 
> I couldn't choose between "Nice Slade" and "Handcuffs" for Day 4 of SladeRobin Week, and I couldn't get them to work together in the same chapter. Then I figured ... since I'm already bending the rules by posting these long after the event is over ... why not have two chapters?
> 
> Today's chapter is "Nice Slade" and the NEXT chapter will be "Handcuffs". Nobody minds an extra chapter right? *Casually boosts the planned chapter count up* Riiight? :p

Dick woke up that first morning to find Slade’s chair vacant, the fire smouldering, and both his sword and Slade bow-and-arrows conspicuously missing.

He swung his legs over the bed and picked his way to the door, wounded leg panging with every other feeble step. The door rattled when he grabbed the handle, but didn’t open.

Locked.

Dick sagged. ‘Shit.’

Sighing, he dragged himself to the chair by the fire, determined to soak up the last dregs of heat before it went out. The storm howled on outside, snow battering the small, high window. It wasn’t as if he could escape Nanda Parbat through the snow, alone and limping, anyway.

_ And Slade won’t help me. _

Pushing up his sleeve, he ran a thumb over the soul mark, and trembled as a burst of sparks ignited at the base of his spine. Nobody else in the world had a mark this. Nobody except Slade.

His soul mate.

Most people never found theirs. Bruce had Selina, of course, but most people lived and loved and married, never expecting to find that magical other half of themselves, learning to be content with what they had.

_ I’m one of the lucky ones. _

He snorted. Fingered the collar still round his neck.

_ Yes. Lucky. _

The door clicked open and Slade shouldered in, a plate balanced in his hand. The smell of bacon wafted through the room and Dick’s stomach growled.

‘You’re up. Good.’ Slade kicked the door closed, crossed the room in two strides and handed the plate down. ‘You should eat.’

Dick took the plate gratefully, but said, ‘Where’s my sword?’

‘Somewhere safe.’ Slade ignored Dick’s withering look, and waited until he started eating to speak again. ‘Ra’s noticed your absence this morning at breakfast. I told him you’re recovering, but he’ll expect to see you eventually.’

Dick gulped down his mouthful of scrambled eggs. ‘I’m not afraid of Ra’s al Ghul. You don’t have to hide me.’

Slade’s lip twitched, and Dick got the odd sensation that he was _proud_. And then, an even odder thrill of warmth at that reaction. A tight, hot desire in the pit of his stomach to make Slade proud again.

He finished his breakfast in relative peace, and Slade took the plate from him and set it down before Dick could attempt to stand up.

‘Your leg?’ Slade said.

Dick shrugged. ‘Still hurts. Unsurprisingly.’

‘Let me see.’

Peeling off his gloves, Slade sank to his knees at Dick’s feet. As he propped Dick’s foot on his knee, Dick thought, _This is how people kneel to Bruce._

One knee down, one bent up, head bowed. If not for his torn trousers, and Slade peeling the bandages away, Dick might’ve felt regal. And then a hard, cold stab of guilt shot through his stomach.

_ My soul mate._

Your soul mate was supposed to be the other half of you. What did it mean for Dick, Crown Prince of Gotham, that his _other half_ was some … some _mercenary_?

_ It means you should never have been prince at all._

He shuddered. Bruce would be furious if he heard Dick say that—_‘You are my son, Dick, regardless of where you were born,’_—but perhaps something had decided Bruce was wrong. Fate, or God, or whatever force was out there, moving the stars across the night sky and painting soul marks on people’s skin.

‘You all right there, Your Highness?’ Slade’s single eye flicked up, and he must have felt Dick’s shudder and assumed it came from pain.

Dick stared down at him. Imagined sliding his hands through Slade’s hair. Parting his knees and pulling Slade closer, thumb tracing over Slade’s lower lip as he opened his mouth. Dick swallowed. ‘Fine.’

Slade frowned at him for a moment longer, as if on the verge of saying something else, but then turned silently back to Dick’s injured leg.

* * *

The days dragged, and Dick’s leg healed slowly.

Slade left him alone, mostly. Dick imagined him stalking the mountainside, prowling through the castle grounds like a bear, hunching over maps and plans in Ra’s al Ghul’s throne room. His wrist tingled after a few hours of Slade’s absence, and then ached, and he wondered if it would be like that forever. If, when he and Slade separated, he’d have to cope with a raw, miserable bruise of a soul mark for the rest of his life.

‘Doesn’t it hurt you?’ he said one night, sat on the end of the bed playing a game of cards he’d never heard of, but which Slade kept winning. ‘When we’re apart?’ He twisted his arm, flashing the soul mark at Slade.

Slade flexed his hand, but it must’ve been reflex, because he barely glanced at his own mark. ‘It’ll stop.’ He laid down another card. ‘I win.’

Dick scowled. ‘I swear you’re cheating.’

‘Only as much as I need to win.’ Slade leaned in, elbows on his knees, as Dick scooped up the pack and shuffled. ‘Do you need to play something easier, Your Highness? Snap, maybe?’

Dick leaned in equally close, the tip of his nose almost brushing Slade’s. ‘Shove it up your ass.’

The flicker of a smile. And Slade didn’t pull away, like Dick expected. ‘Foul language coming from a delicate prince.’

He was close. God, achingly close. His beard brushed Dick’s chin as he talked, feather-soft. Dick’s chest tightened, and he had a response. A clever, witty response. He just … couldn’t remember it right now. And his lips were parting, and he could feel Slade’s breath on his face, and Slade put a finger under Dick’s chin and tilted his head up—

—and stiffened.

And sat back.

A brief tremor ran through Slade’s body, his single eye closing for a moment as though he were trying to banish something unpleasant from his mind. Then he opened his eye, expression clear, and Dick couldn’t be sure he’d seen any change in him after all.

‘Best of three?’ Slade glanced at the deck, now spilling out of Dick’s slack fingers.

Dick shook himself. ‘Y-yes. Yes.’

Scooping up the cards, he dealt them out a hand each, trying to ignore the tight knot of rejection in his belly—and the hot, burning itch of the soul mark on his wrist.

* * *

The pain didn’t stop.

Days passed, and even after Dick’s leg stopped burning whenever he moved, his soul mark continued to ache when they were apart. Slade brought books and games to occupy him, but by the time Slade pushed through the door with Dick’s evening meal balanced in one hand, Dick was ready to cry with relief.

‘If you don’t rest that damn leg,’ Slade growled from his seat by the fire, watching Dick limp back and forth across the room, book dangling forgotten in his hand, ‘I’ll chain you to the bed.’

‘You might as well chain me to the bed,’ Dick muttered. ‘It’s not like I can go anywhere.’

Slade returned his stare, dark and deadpan. ‘Is that an offer?’

Dick stumbled, heat rushing into his face. He whirled to face Slade. _Chain tugging at his collar, Slade’s weight on his body, Slade’s skin against his skin … _A shiver shot down his spine, immediately followed by a cold slick of guilt. ‘What? No!’

‘Pity.’ Slade’s voice grew so low it was practically a purr. ‘For your leg, of course.’

Dick held his gaze across the dark room, heart thumping. Slade’s single eye travelled down Dick’s body and back up, as if drinking in every inch of him. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. Stepped closer to Dick.

And Dick didn’t back away. His wrist warmed, and he reached up as Slade drew close—

Slade pivoted suddenly, stepping around him. ‘Come on.’

Dick’s hand fell. He turned on the spot, staring as Slade reached the door. ‘What?’

‘If you’re going to damage your leg walking around on it, you might as well do it outside this room.’ Slade slipped the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door with a click. ‘I’m getting a headache watching you pace.’

Dick hesitated only a moment. Then lunged after Slade out the door.

Slade stayed close by Dick’s shoulder as they walked, but didn’t push him in any particular direction, or tell him where to go. The halls of Nanda Parbat were quiet at night, the guards regularly spaced but still, and silent. And for the first time in days, Dick felt like he could breathe. Like he wasn’t being crushed.

Slade took him out the next night, and the next. Dick explored the library, the ballroom, the balconies—glittering with snow and bitterly cold—the kitchens, the courtyard. They spoke in low murmurs, Dick asking questions about the architecture (Slade knew all about the thin, slitted windows designed for archers, and the twisting front gate built to slow invading forces, but had no information about the carved dragons on the rooftops); Slade occasionally touching Dick’s shoulder, or the small or his back, making suggestions as to where they should go.

As they walked, Dick pieced together a mental map of the castle. Staircases here; battlements there; servant’s passageways connecting wider thoroughfares. Anything that could help Bruce—help Gotham—when he got back home. Slade must’ve known what he was doing, must’ve at least _suspected_, but he seemed not to care. He never threatened to stop taking Dick outside.

On a rare clear night, Dick headed for a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The snowstorm had long since ended, but the air was sharp, and he shuddered as bitter gusts howled round the castle. The wind cut into the bare skin of his injured leg, worming its fingers into his doublet and through his tunic.

Fighting shivers, Dick limped to the dark stone railing at the edge of the balcony. Slade’s hand brushed his arm, but it must’ve been an accident, because when Dick glanced back he didn’t say anything.

In the courtyard below, the snow was stamped flat by dozens of kicking, tramping feet. Then there were the battlements, glittering like frosted cakes, and beyond that, the deep, pale slopes of the mountainside.

Dick brushed snow off the balcony railing, blew on his stinging fingers, and leaned on his elbows, staring out across the scene. After Damian defected to Gotham, he’d taught them some of the Nanda Parbat language, and martial art style, and other, small titbits—scoffing the entire time at his new brothers’ ignorance. But he’d never described the landscape. Never talked about bitter winters or hot, breezy summers. Never mentioned strolling in the woods or staring up at the stars.

Dick craned his neck now, searching the familiar constellations. The moon burned lantern-bright, fat and almost full.

He wondered what Damian was doing now. Arguing with Tim, probably. His mouth twitched, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. Yes, Damian and Tim would be clawing each other’s eyes out over some petty argument. Maybe Tim treated Damian too much like a child, or maybe Damian insulted Tim’s intelligence. And Jason would be cheering them on, because that was what Jason _did_. Revelled in chaos. Right up until one or both of them turned a punch on him, at which point Jason would have each of them in a headlock, dangling half out the bedroom window. Dick could’ve diffused the argument even then, but without him it’d be Alfred, ineffectually tempting them back in with offers of hot chocolate, or Bruce tearing them apart, coldly reminding them that Gotham was at _war_, as if they needed reminding. As if all the fights and scuffles weren’t just building tension and fear and hostility bursting out at the wrong person at the wrong time, because they had nowhere else to go.

‘The sky done something to offend you?’ Slade leaned one elbow on the railing, staring into Dick’s face. ‘You’re scowling.’

Dick sniffed—_just the cold_—and swallowed thickly. ‘Thinking of my brothers.’

‘Ah.’ Slade nodded. ‘The spoilt princes of Gotham. I understand the expression now.’

Dick swatted at Slade weakly. ‘They’re not.’

‘I fail to see how four boys raised as royalty could be anything but.’ Slade snorted. ‘You can’t fool me. I knew Damian when he lived here, in Nanda Parbat, the little brat.’

Dick’s stomach tightened. And suddenly, unexpectedly, he wanted to throw Slade off the balcony. ‘From what I’ve heard, Damian spent his childhood being treated like a weapon. Just this, this _thing_ that Ra’s al Ghul could take out and put away whenever he wanted.’ He shook his head, swiping at the snow on the railing, just to watch something fall and splat in the courtyard below. ‘The way he was treated here, I’m not surprised he was a _brat_. He’s nothing like that anymore.’

Truthfully, Damian was still a brat half the time. But he’d also fallen asleep curled up against Dick’s side, pretending to read a book on sword care, and sat with Jason for hours perfecting his pronunciation of the Nanda Parbat language, and brought a dozen stray dogs, cats and birds into the castle to feed them up, or mend broken wings, or just let them sleep by the fire.

Dick glanced up, and realised Slade was staring at him with fascination, as if Dick was saying something new and intriguing. Perhaps he’d just never heard anyone defend Damian before.

‘I suppose being around genuine Gotham royalty has improved him,’ Slade said, and then snorted.

Dick flinched, and Slade lowered his brow, as if he didn’t understand. And then Dick realised he _didn’t_ understand.

‘I’m not King Wayne’s son,’ he said softly. And he knew Bruce would refute that, but was true. Technically. ‘None of us are, except Damian.’

Slade stared, single cold eye unblinking.

‘It’s not a secret,’ Dick added quickly. ‘He adopted us. Jason was living on the streets and he tried to prise a ruby off the king’s carriage. Bruce was impressed with his guts, and took him home. And Tim had to escape this arranged marriage. He begged the king for help, and, well … Bruce took him in as well.’

Dick was slipping, using Bruce’s first name. Outside of their family, Bruce was _King Wayne_. But it didn’t seem worth standing on ceremony here, on this frigid balcony, with a mercenary who knew next to nothing about them anyway.

_ With my soul mate._

He turned his hand over, examining his wrist in the cool white moonlight. The colours bled together in the dark, and it was almost black-and-white again. Almost as it used to be.

Dick flipped his hand back, shaking the thought away.

‘And you?’ Slade said softly.

Dick looked up. ‘Hmm? Oh.’ He pressed his fingers into the snow, holding them there as the cold nipped and stung and burned. ‘My parents were travellers. Performers, you know? One day, the performance …’ He pulled his hand out of the snow with a wince, the cold biting too deep. ‘They died.’ He forced himself to meet Slade’s eye, shaking the pain out of his fingers. ‘Some genuine Gotham royalty. I’m not even from Gotham. Not really.’

Slade reached out and caught Dick’s hand. Dick froze, but Slade curled his hand around Dick’s red, stinging fingers, and chafed them between his palms, urging warmth back into them. If not for the gloves, Dick was sure he’d melt under the touch of Slade’s soul mark. How Slade could use his hand so freely, without so much as a wince?

Bowing his head, Slade blew on Dick’s hands, his breath hot, his lips just grazing the tips of Dick’s fingers. Dick shivered, warmth spreading down his spine. Usually, Slade’s touches were brief. As if he regretted them instantly. But now he held on to Dick’s hand even after Dick’s fingers were warm.

‘Wayne doesn’t strike as a man who makes decisions lightly. Or a man who makes mistakes.’

Dick tried to shrug, but he felt light-headed, disconnected from his body. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Then you are genuine Gotham royalty, Your Highness.’ The last two words dripped with sarcasm, thick and viscous as jelly. But they were also warm, in a rough, genuine kind of way. Slade squeezed his fingers, and finally let them drop. ‘Sorry about your family.’ Also gruff, but strangely sincere.

Dick turned, winding his arms around himself, leaning back on the railing. ‘I lost my first family. I’ve got another one to worry about now.’ He sighed. ‘And I am worried about them.’

‘You should worry about yourself.’ Slade touched his shoulder, fleeting again. ‘Come on. It’s freezing out here.’

Dick nodded, and followed him inside.

* * *

The next night, Slade slipped him a letter when he stepped in with Dick’s evening meal. Dick turned the paper over with a frown. Then recognised the seal imprinted into the wax—already broken.

_Bruce._

‘I’ll have to put it back on Ra’s’s desk tomorrow morning,’ Slade murmured, taking his usual seat by the fire. He still slept there every night, insisting Dick keep the bed to himself. ‘But you probably want to read it.’

‘Thank you,’ Dick breathed. Forgetting his supper, he unfolded the letter, ran his fingers softly over Bruce’s familiar handwriting, and settled down to read.

* * *

Slade wasn’t going to help the boy escape. He wasn’t.

So why, exactly, he was sneaking down into the stables in the dead of night with bundles of food swiped from the kitchens, was beyond him.

Slade clicked the correct stall open and slid inside.

His horse raised its head with a snort. Slade ran a hand over his nose, mumbling softly; it nosed at his shoulder and, after confirming he didn’t have any apples stashed in his doublet, turned away and went back to dozing.

Ducking into the corner of the stall, Slade prised up a loose board in the wall. The cramped space inside was filled with his saddlebags, each of them nearly bursting with bread, biscuits, cheese and dried fruit. Enough for a long journey, for two people. Or at least, it was now, with these new additions.

He stuffed his pilfered meals into the saddlebags, then reached deeper into the space. His hand traced the hilt of Dick’s sword; the smooth edge of his bow; the soft fletchings of his quiver of arrows. Nodding in satisfaction, he stuffed the saddlebags back into place. Replaced the board.

He stood, straightening his doublet with a furtive glance out the stable door.

He wasn’t going to help the boy escape.

But just in case …

Slade took a breath, and marched out into the cold.


	5. Handcuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suppose this is technically day 4.5, since I'm using the _other_ quote from Day 4 of SladeRobin Week. ^^; 
> 
> I'm sorry this took so abysmally long to write. You're all incredibly patient and wonderful, and I hope to get back to a regular update schedule soon. <3

Dick read the letter fourteen times.

He set it down under the bed while he slept, and then woke up in the night again and again, heart racing, afraid morning had come and Slade had already taken it back to Ra’s al Ghul. But each time it was still dark, and then letter still waited in reach. Slade wasn’t even there the first few times Dick woke; and then he was asleep in his chair by the fire, and didn’t stir when Dick reopened the letter to read it over and over by the dim ember-light.

> _To King Ra’s al Ghul of Nanda Parbat,_
> 
> _ Gotham City will not be surrendered. Nor will territories currently occupied by Gotham citizens. All other terms as described in your letter are acceptable, in exchange for Prince Richard’s safe return._
> 
> _ Prince Damian will join us for the exchange; he may decide for himself whether he wishes to return to Nanda Parbat, or remain in Gotham. He is not my prisoner and I have no desire to keep him against his will._
> 
> _ I trust Prince Richard is in good health._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _King Bruce Wayne of Gotham_

Dick’s heart alternately soared and plummeted each time he read. Bruce’s refusal to surrender more land to Ra’s warmed Dick with pride.

But then … the ‘other terms’.

What _had _Ra’s convinced Bruce to give up?

The fourth time Dick read it, his focus snapped to three words. _Territories currently occupied._ And his stomach turned to lead.

The land Ra’s had already invaded wasn’t occupied by Gotham citizens. They’d fled, their homes and farms and livelihoods burning behind them. Gotham City was bursting with refugees.

And Bruce was going to let Ra’s keep their land.

In exchange for Dick.

By the time Dick reached the section about Damian, it was all he could do not to tear the letter to shreds. He wanted to scream. _No, Bruce, it’s a trick!_ Clearly, Bruce thought giving Damian a choice—proving Damian didn’t want to come back—would be enough to satisfy Ra’s al Ghul. It wouldn’t. Ra’s wouldn’t give Damian a choice. He’d drag his grandson back to Nanda Parbat in a sack if he had to. Or worse—execute him for treachery.

Dick shuddered.

He traced his fingers over Bruce’s last line. _I trust Prince Richard is in good health._ Half plea, half threat. _Care for my son, Ra’s. Because if you don’t …_

Over and over, Dick folded up the letter, slipped it under the bed, and turned over to sleep. Fuming, because he wasn’t in good health. Or at least, he wouldn’t be, if not for Slade.

By morning, he’d made a decision.

He had to stop this trade. With or without Slade’s help.

He had to escape Nanda Parbat.

* * *

Dick woke early one morning, days later, because Slade threw a bundle of clothes at his head.

Groaning, Dick turned over, pressed his face into the pillows for another blissful moment before forcing himself up.

‘Put those on.’ Slade was already up and dressed, adjusting his gloves. ‘Ra’s expects you at breakfast. Probably wants to make sure I haven’t taken any of your limbs off.’ He didn’t quite roll his eye, but his tone gave that effect.

Shifting to the end of the bed, Dick shook the bundle out. Smoke-black trousers, silk-soft leather boots, a dark tunic. He glanced up at Slade, who now sat by the fire, apparently engaged in the book Dick was reading yesterday and not at all watching Dick undress. Forcing back a smile, Dick stood and slipped out of his doublet and tunic.

In truth, he was glad to remove them. _He’d_ washed every night, but his tunic stank, and his trousers were still torn at the knee.

He rolled the new trousers up at the ankles to keep them from flapping and tugged on the tunic. It crossed over at his chest with ties that wound round his waist; typical Nanda Parbat style. Slade closed his book and swept forward to tug the material into place at Dick’s throat. Dick dropped his arms, letting Slade run his hands over the tunic to smooth the creases. Resisting the urge to lean in. Reach up. Bury his fingers in Slade’s hair.

Slade ran a thumb over Dick’s throat, lifting the metal collar out from under his tunic. Dick shivered, closing his eyes. He wanted to catch Slade’s wrist; splay his fingers open; press a kiss to his palm. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, his soul mark tingling.

‘We need that visible.’ Slade stepped back. ‘And …’

His footsteps crossed the room. Dick opened his eyes at the soft, metallic ringing of chains.

He whirled. ‘No.’

Slade twisted the chain round his arm, as if coiling a rope. ‘Don’t be difficult.’

‘Difficult!’ Dick stepped back. ‘I’m not letting you chain me up again!’

‘It’s what Ra’s expects.’ Slade’s voice remained level. ‘He thinks I’ve had you chained up in here for weeks, while I pulled your toenails and set fire to your armpit hair.’

Dick ground his teeth. ‘It’s humiliating.’

‘Good. You’re a _prisoner_. Ra’s will spend the entire meal humiliating you—and outright hurting you if you show an ounce of defiance.’ Slade stopped. Swallowed. He’d grown just a little louder with each word, and now as he exhaled his shoulders lowered.

Dick straightened. Slade’s face was smooth. Calm.

Except for his eyes.

Even his blind eye, covered with a patch, looked tighter than usual. Lined, as though he was fighting not to let it go wide with panic.

Slade twisted the chain; the links clicked together. ‘Make it easier on yourself and _trust me_, Dick. Act as if you are utterly broken already. Don’t give Ra’s a reason to target you.’

Dick hesitated, staring into Slade’s face, although he already knew he was going to agree. He couldn’t _not_, feeling the chills sweeping off Slade. His soul mate. His other half.

‘Fine,’ he breathed. ‘_Fine_. Just don’t drag me along by the damn thing.’

Slade stepped closer, reaching up to thread the chain through the loop on Dick’s collar. ‘I won’t. It’ll look better that way. If you stay close, as if you’re too afraid to run.’

‘Perfect,’ Dick muttered. Then, because his face was hot and his soul mark was burning and Slade was painfully close, he added in a spiteful hiss, ‘You know, I actually think you’re enjoying this.’

Slade’s hands twitched, and cold guilt shot through Dick’s stomach. Of course Slade wasn’t enjoying this. Slade was _scared_. Dick could practically smell it.

Slade took a breath. Ran the chain through his hands. Gripped it, inches from the collar.

And yanked Dick up.

Dick hissed, stumbling into Slade’s body. He balanced on his toes, legs trembling. When Slade bowed his head, his lips traced Dick’s—the barest touch.

‘Maybe a little.’

His beard brushed Dick’s chin and his nose nudged Dick’s nose, and the room went black and Dick was meant to be angry or guilty but he couldn’t remember why. He soul mark burned and his chest ached, and he strained higher, lips parted, yearning—

Slade stepped back.

Dick rocked back on his heels, the room and the chain and the humiliation flooding back. And Slade—_Slade_—with that damn smug smile—

‘You’re a real bastard,’ Dick snapped. ‘You know that?’

‘I play to my strengths.’ Slade’s smirk wavered. His eyes were still tight. ‘Come on.’

* * *

It was exactly as humiliating as Dick expected.

The chain gleamed like spider’s silk, and Dick ground his teeth and jutted his chin up and ignored the stared and jeers and sniggers through the dining hall. Because whatever Slade said, he was not going to act broken. The Crown Prince of Gotham didn’t _break_.

Ra’s sat at the far end of the room. Dick felt his eyes follow him every step of the stomach-turning parade through the hall.

He played up his limp, although truthfully his leg barely hurt anymore. God, he longed for the weight of his sword at his hip.

Slade reached for the seat beside Ra’s, but Ra’s waved him off.

‘Manners, Slade. This seat is for our honoured guest.’ His eyes flicked up to Dick. ‘Here, Richard. Sit _down_.’

At his last word, Ra’s snatched up the slack line of the chain, and wrenched Dick forward. It was a sharp, swift gesture—he barely seemed to exert any effort at all. But the collar yanked at Dick’s throat hard enough to make him gasp, and he stumbled into the chair, gripping the table’s edge to keep from tumbling across it.

Shrugging, Slade took the next seat. His hand skimmed over Dick’s elbow; brief enough to be accidental, warm enough that Dick was sure it wasn’t.

‘Well.’ Ra’s eyed Dick over as if inspecting a tool for faults. ‘You haven’t damaged his face, at least.’

Dick clenched his fists, heat rising in his face. No, Slade hadn’t _damaged_ his face. Hadn’t damaged _any_ of him, despite Ra’s al Ghul’s intentions—

A hand slid over Dick’s knee and squeezed. Slade’s hand. Warm and solid and holding him firmly down.

_Don’t give Ra’s a reason to target you._

Taking a slow breath, Dick loosened his fists. Lowered his head. If only to keep Ra’s from staring at him.

‘I must say, you suit Nanda Parbat clothing.’ Ra’s picked fruit from a bowl on the table, arranging it neatly on his plate. ‘Perhaps I won’t return you to Gotham after all. You make an excellent trophy. And it seems only fair to keep you, considering how Wayne ensnared my grandson.’

Dick bristled. ‘Damian—’

Slade’s hand tightened on his knee. Dick tensed. Bit his tongue.

Too easy. He was making this _too easy_ for Ra’s.

Behind him, Slade reached across the table with his free hand to pour a glass of juice, apparently engrossed in a conversation between two of Ra’s al Ghul’s generals across the table.

‘Yes?’ Ra’s stared, unblinking.

_ Like a lizard_, Dick thought.

Ra’s leaned closer. ‘Damian is what, exactly?’

And he wasn’t going to let it go, so Dick kept his head down and said the words quietly, so maybe Ra’s wouldn’t find them so _defiant_. ‘Damian is happy in Gotham.’

‘I doubt that.’ Ra’s still wasn’t moving. Wasn’t blinking. ‘Damian doesn’t concern himself with mundanities such as happiness.’

Dick bit his tongue again; this time until it hurt. It was that or laugh, or maybe scream. Who _said_ things like that? Things he’d expect to hear from the villain in a book of fairy tales. He risked a sideways glance at Ra’s, wondering if he’d sprout wings and turn into a dragon.

‘Eat.’ Ra’s gestured at Dick’s empty plate, and then at the abundant food on offer in the middle of the table. Bowls of fruit, racks of toast, sizzling pans of bacon and eggs and fish, piles of soft, fluffy white rice. ‘I know for a fact Slade hasn’t been starving you.’

Dick picked out some toast, eggs and bacon. The chain jangled, getting in the way of his arms as he reached across the table.

Ra’s finally turned to whatever conversation Slade was involved in across the table, and Dick ate in relative peace. He’d halfway finished his plate before he realised he ought to be listening in on them all; absorbing information. Even if he doubted they’d say anything secretive in his presence.

Finally, Slade stood, sliding the chain between his fingers. ‘Well, Ra’s? Are you satisfied I haven’t disembowelled him?’

‘Very much so.’ Lacing his fingers, Ra’s rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘Still, I can’t help having second thoughts on the wisdom of entrusting such a valuable asset to a mercenary. You’ve had your fun, Slade. Perhaps one of my generals is better suited—’ he gestured around the table; a few men looked up in interest, ‘—to keep Richard in comfort. Or I could keep him myself.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘What do you say, Richard? I assure you, my tastes are less … _brutish_ than Slade’s.’

Dick’s heart leaped into his throat. No—no—that was his _breakfast_. He swallowed, fighting the urge to gag. To throw up all over Ra’s al Ghul’s smug face. Why? Why _now_ would he—?

Dick glanced up at Slade, and went cold.

Slade’s brows were lowered, his mouth a thin, sharp scowl. As if he were angry his toy was being taken away.

It was almost believable.

But Dick couldn’t miss the tight lines of panic around his eyes.

_ Ra’s knows._

Or at least, Ra’s suspected. That Slade was treating Dick better than he claimed. That Slade was attached to Dick. That Slade might even _help_ him.

It was a test.

Dick levelled his gaze on Ra’s. Raised his eyebrows, letting his mouth fall open. It wasn’t hard to act shocked. It was harder to act hopeful. ‘You … wouldn’t hurt me?’

Ra’s returned his stare. Almost smiling, as if he wasn’t buying it at all. ‘I can’t promise you that.’

Closing his mouth, Dick forced out a huff through his nose—half sigh, half exhausted, helpless laughter. He shrugged. ‘Then what difference does it make?’

Silence.

Ra’s stared at him, eyes burning, as if he were imagining peeling back Dick’s skin to see his insides. As if he really could do exactly that, and eventually peel deep enough to read Dick’s thoughts. As if he were deciding if Dick was worth the effort.

He lowered his hands. Sat back. ‘What difference indeed?’ He waved at Slade. ‘Go on, keep him. He is your reward, after all.’

‘Yes,’ Slade said stonily. ‘He is.’

He turned, and Dick followed him out the hall, Ra’s al Ghul’s stare burning into the back of his neck.

* * *

They didn’t utter a word until they reached Slade’s room, and closed the door behind them.

Breathing a sigh, Dick sank onto the edge of the bed. He stretched out his bad leg, rubbing at the sore muscles—until Slade knelt at his feel, pushed Dick’s hands away, and massaged his calf for him.

Dick swallowed. ‘That went well.’

Slade laughed, bitter, with a note of hysteria. ‘He’ll watch us now. Make sure I’m not treating you too kindly.’

‘I can give myself a black eye if it helps,’ Dick said. ‘Scream every now and then. “Oh god, not the poker!” That sort of thing.’

Another laugh, weaker. Slade’s hands stilled on Dick’s leg, bit didn’t lift away. Like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Dick reached down. Slid his fingers through Slade’s. ‘I have to get away.’

He tensed, waiting for the denial. The argument. It was safer like this. It was better. They’d part ways and everything would go back to normal. Running away was stupid and ridiculous and dangerous—

‘I know.’

Dick straightened. Warmth spread through his chest. And he smiled—stupid, unthinking—because _yes, finally_—

But then Slade lifted his head, brow furrowed. ‘But the _safest_ open is still—’

Dick kissed him.

He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want a ‘safest option’ that kept them both trapped here. Didn’t want to be locked in this room another minute with his soul mate, burning with the need to touch and hold and _own_ and desperately fighting it.

Slade’s lips were dry and chapped but yielding, moving warm against Dick’s mouth. And his hands skimmed up Dick’s leg to his knee and then his thigh and—

He pulled away. Snatched his hands back, as if he’d touched a burning brand.

Heat flooded Dick’s chest and his vision was a misty haze, and without thought he grabbed Slade’s arm. His other hand closed around the chain still dangling from his own neck, and in a few sharp movements, he lashed the chain around Slade’s wrists. Pulled it tight.

Slade hissed as Dick yanked him up into another kiss.

And this time, Slade didn’t yield. This time he pressed up into Dick’s mouth; nipped at Dick’s lips; traced his tongue over Dick’s teeth. He got his feet under him and lurched up, and towered over Dick, straining to free his wrists from the chain. Dick tugged it tighter, and Slade growled, the sound vibrating through Dick’s body. Sparks raced over Dick’s skin and he moaned.

And then yelped, when Slade bit down, hard, on his lip.

He jerked back, gasping.

Slade hunched over him, single eye blazing. Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips. ‘You’re determined to make this difficult, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t see how it was ever going to be easy,’ Dick shot back.

Slade’s gaze flicked down to Dick’s collar. He closed his eye, teeth bared in a grimace. ‘Damn it, Dick, you’re still my prisoner.’

Dick tugged the chain round Slade’s wrists. ‘Depends on where you’re standing.’

Slade opened his eye and met Dick’s stare.

Dick smiled, weak at first, then warmer.

And Slade finally laughed, shaking his head. ‘You—’ he leaned in, kissing Dick’s mouth, his jaw, his throat, ‘—are a spoiled brat.’

He closed his fingers in Dick’s tunic, drawing him close. Dick arched his back, tilting his head as Slade ran his tongue up the column of Dick’s throat. Shivers erupted over his skin. His soul mark _burned_. Slade’s lips flickered over the sensitive patch of skin at the corner of Dick’s jaw and Dick moaned, toes curling, sparks flashing at the base of his spine. His knees fell open and Slade stepped in between them. Blood roared in Dick’s ears and pounded low in his body and—

Three knocks on the door, short and sharp.

Dick jolted and Slade sprang back. The chain slipped through Dick’s slack fingers, coiling on the floor with a metallic hiss.

Slade recovered first. He shook himself. Ran a hand through his hair.

And wrenched the door open. ‘Yes?’

The man outside glanced past Slade, his gaze sliding from Dick’s flushed face to his dishevelled tunic to his open legs. Dick went hot from the tops of his ears to the tips of his toes, and fumbled with his tunic, smoothing the wrinkles where Slade grabbed him.

Turning back to Slade, the man outside spoke rapidly in the Nanda Parbat language. For all Damian’s best efforts to teach him, Dick didn’t catch a word. But Slade clearly understood; he snapped a response before turning back to Dick.

‘I’ll be an hour. At most.’

He slipped through the door and disappeared.

Dick listened as his footsteps faded, heart still pounding, the pleasant burn of his soul mark dulling to a familiar, lingering ache.

He slammed a fist into the blankets. ‘Damn it!’

He’d fooled around before—who hadn’t?—with men and women in Gotham. Brief love affairs with flowers and sweets and groping in dark corners of the castle. But he’d never been like this. Chest tight. Skin prickling. _Hurting_ to have Slade back.

Damn soul marks. Damn soul mates. Damn _everything_.

Dick tilted his head back, breathing a sigh as he threaded the chain out of his collar. He kicked it under the bed. Dropped his head in his hands.

Frowned.

Something … something was missing.

_ Slade._

Obviously. But no. Besides Slade.

Dick sat up. Stared at the door.

That was it.

He hadn’t heard the lock click.

Dick shot to his feet and crossed the room, stomach fluttering. When he twisted the handle, the door opened without resistance.

Slade forgot to lock him in.

Or … no.

_ I’ll be an hour._

It wasn’t a promise to come back. It was a warning. It was how long Dick had left. How long he had to escape. Because …

_ I know._

Dick’s breath hitched. He closed the door. Touched the collar, gleaming at his throat. Hen he pulled back his tunic and tucked the collar in, drawing the folds of fabric up close around his neck, hiding the cool metal. Slade had even given him decent camouflage, in these Nanda Parbat clothes. His hair was dark enough to get away with, but he’d have to keep his head down—hide his pale face and blue eyes.

_ I know._

Slade’s voice was a warm echo in Dick’s head. His chest tightened. He needed Slade. Not just helping him but with him, following him back to Gotham. Needed his soul mate, like he needed breath.

But Gotham needed Dick.

Bruce. Damian. Jason and Tim and Selina and—

Dick gulped a breath, and slipped out the door.


	6. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so uh, we're just going to forget that I'm meant to be following prompts. Or any kind of planned chapter count. Cool? Cool. :p

Dick almost couldn’t believe how easy it was.

No one glanced twice at him as he hurried through the castle. One man smiled pleasantly, gave a word of greeting, and held a door open for him. Dick muttered a response, pulled from the limited phrases Damian managed to teach him, before ducking past with his eyes down.

He walked fast, trying to act preoccupied. In minutes he swept to the ground floor, past the kitchens and towards the courtyard.

_ Thank god for all those nighttime walks._

He pushed through the door and stepped outside

And stopped.

Ra’s al Ghul’s soldiers filled the courtyard.

Knives glinted as they stepped and twisted and jabbed in unison, flowing together in rows as neat as a chessboard. At the far end of the podium, a captain stood on a podium, bellowing orders to the unit as they moved seamlessly through their drills. And at his shoulder …

Ra’s. His eyes swept the courtyard, following the movements of his soldiers … and picking out the servants scurrying around the soldiers, shouldering bundles of firewood or baskets of fruit or straw for the horses.

Turning on his heel, Dick darted back inside.

All right. Fine. Not a disaster.

Back past the kitchens. Back upstairs. Back through the dark hallways by Slade’s room.

And out onto the battlements.

He’d found the right spot a few weeks ago, wandering outside with Slade between snowstorms. On the east side of the castle, a sharp corner and a wide gap between guards created a blind spot. Dick reached it and hesitated, heart racing. How long did he have left? Slade gave him an hour _at most_. He might already be back at their rooms, feigning surprise that Dick was gone. Ordering a search. Because he had to—because that expected of him.

Dick stretched his bad leg, rolling his ankle to loosen the stiff joints. He brushed snow off the edge of the battlement and watched it burst into powder as it tumbled to the ground far below. He swallowed.

And then swung over the edge, dug his toes into the rock, and began to climb.

* * *

Dick was eight years old when he first found Bruce on the roof of Gotham Castle.

He wasn’t rebellious, generally. Or badly behaved. Because he was _grateful_. He was. Really. He wasn’t a prince when Bruce took him in. Wasn’t a little lordling in gold-threaded doublets with a toy-sized sword at his hip. Wasn’t even the son of a duke, or a baron, or a scholar. He signed his name with an X, counted on his fingers, and slept in his parent’s caravan in a different town every night.

But he could _climb_.

And he was grateful for the money and the tutors and the warm bed, but without a high wire to balance on and ropes to swing off he didn’t feel like _him_.

So he scrambled out his window and tip-toed along the gutter, thrilling at the sharp tingle in his belly as he looked down. He pounced from one roof to another, hopped over the peak and slid down the other side, reaching out to snatch the ear of a gargoyle before he could slip clean over the edge.

The gargoyle moved.

Dick yelped, getting his feet under him and scrambling back, arms flailing.

Unfurling, the gargoyle turned—no—_not_ the gargoyle. Someone crouched behind the gargoyle. Someone in a dark doublet with piercing blue eyes and a sharp frown.

Dick’s stomach plummeted.

_King Bruce Wayne._

‘I’m—I’m sorry!’ he gasped. ‘I know I’m not supposed to—I won’t come up here again!’

Bruce’s brow lowered. His eyes flicked over Dick’s face, then widened. ‘How did you get up here?’

Swallowing, Dick forced out, ‘Bedroom window.’

Bruce’s frown deepened. ‘Your bedroom is in a tower.’

Dick shrugged, not sure if Bruce was implying the climb was too dangerous, or that it was outright impossible and Dick was lying.

Somewhere below, a voice rang through an open window. ‘Have you seen the king? I’ve been searching everywhere and I …’ It faded, the person apparently walking away.

Widening his eyes, Bruce lifted a finger to his mouth. Once the person’s echoed away, he stepped around the gargoyle and sat down, legs dangling over the rooftop. ‘I come here for peace and quiet.’

‘Sorry,’ Dick whispered.

Bruce smiled. ‘You’re quiet enough.’ He patted the tiles beside him; Dick shimmied into the space. ‘You can come up here, on a few conditions.’

‘Yes?’

‘One—’ Bruce held up a finger, ‘—don’t disturb my peace and quiet.’

Dick nodded eagerly, and mimed pinching his lips shut.

‘Two—’ another finger, ‘—don’t tell Alfred.’

Dick giggled. It reminded him of the way his father used to surreptitiously sneak him cakes, with a soft, _Don’t tell your mother._ ‘All right.’

‘And of course, three.’ Bruce looked away gravely, but his eyes glinted. ‘Don’t fall off.’

* * *

Don’t fall off.

_Don’t fall off._

Dick ground his teeth, fingers stinging, muscles straining.

The castle was ancient, with deep cracks between the stones where the mortar had crumbled away. Perfect for climbing.

Except those cracks were packed with ice and snow, slick and wet and bitingly cold on Dick’s fingertips. Hands trembling, he shifted his foot down another inch. Another. Searching with his toes for the next gap—

His other foot slipped loose.

Dick’s stomach wrenched. He took his weight on his fingertips for an instant, snarling through gritted teeth, straining, legs kicking for purchase. And then his fingers gave.

He tumbled, gasping, fingers stinging and scrabbling. He knee cracked against the stone, and pain shot through his leg, ringing in his bones.

He leaned in, digging his fingers and toes into the wall until, suddenly, he hit a ledge.

He halted, shuddering, toes balanced on a single crooked stone.

_Don’t. Fall. Off._

He pressed his forehead to the wall, gasping. Then glanced up, taking in the distance he’d dropped. A good few feet.

At least he didn’t have to climb that now.

Nobody looked over the battlements to check the noise. He must’ve been quieter than he thought. Hugging close to the wall, he turned his head and looked down over his shoulder.

Not bad. He couldn’t jump yet, but he was close.

Dick waited until his heart stopped trying to leap out his mouth. Then he took another step down.

Inch by aching inch, he picked his way down the wall. Until, finally, he dropped into deep snow with a soft thump.

And it was deep. The wind had thrown drifts against the castle walls, piling it high. It swallowed Dick as if he’d plunged underwater, rearing up over his head.

He groaned. Leaning back against the castle wall, he stared up at the powder, getting his breath back. He’d get soaked pushing through it. And where was he supposed to go once he did?

Dick cupped his hands around his nose and mouth, blowing on his cold fingers.

This was the east side of the castle. The road down the mountain was on the south side. The road was easier, the snow cleared regularly by wagons and sleighs and foot traffic. And there’d be villages and inns on the way down … not that Dick had money for a room or a meal. Besides, if anyone recognised him, they’d haul him back to Nanda Parbat Castle. And this time, he didn’t doubt Ra’s would make good on his promise to ‘keep’ Dick himself.

Dick shuddered.

But he couldn’t wade through deep snow forever. He’d freeze long before he reached the bottom of the mountain, much less Gotham.

He rubbed his hands together, urging the blood back into his fingers. Blew on them again. Chewed his lip as he flicked through the views he’d memorised from the castle battlements. Distant villages. Roads. Hunting routes. Woodlands …

_Woodlands._

They were on the east side of the castle. Tall, thick fir trees spreading down the mountainside. They’d block some of the snow, give him shelter, and he could hunt and forage enough to keep from starving.

Setting his jaw, Dick squared his shoulders and pushed through the snow.

* * *

Slade bit the inside of his mouth and forced himself to _focus_ on the captain giving his report.

Ra’s al Ghul’s generals nodded and muttered, pointing out strongholds on the map spread across the table, spitballing different tactics to stop the approaching Gotham battalion.

Credit to Bruce Wayne. The man had balls, storming into Ra’s al Ghul’s territory like this.

Less credit for attacking in winter, when the snow made marching hard, the cold made troops miserable, and Nanda Parbat castle was stocked with supplies to last months of sieging.

Slade clenched his fist. Flexed. Clenched.

Damn it, his soul mark itched.

He needed Dick. Needed to touch him. To press the mark into his skin. Feel the itch turn to warmth, and then heat, and then satisfaction as he pressed Dick down and kissed his neck and _claimed_ at last. Mine. Mine. _Mine._

He bit down harder on the inside of his mouth. Focused on the sting.

And kept his expression impassive.

The hour crawled by, and as everyone finally filtered out the door, Slade quashed the urge to run. Agonising as the meeting was, the news of the battalion also presented an opportunity.

He’d get Dick out. Quietly. Quickly. Take him straight to them.

Gotham soldiers would protect their prince without question. Most likely they’d spare a few men to guide Dick safely back to Gotham—along with Slade. He snorted. He supposed he was taking Dick’s suggestion after all. _Help me escape back to Gotham, and King Wayne will find your retirement._

Fine. If it got him out, and kept Dick safe, he’d kneel to another pretentious warmonger.

Bruce Wayne better be as wealthy as Dick claimed.

But first …

First, he was going to pin Dick Grayson to the bed and make him scream. Tying Slade with chains was a dirty trick. And Dick needed to learn not to play dirty—not unless he wanted Slade to play dirtier.

Shaking his itching hand, Slade reached for his bedroom door. Strange. Usually, his soul mark eased off as he grew closer to Dick. He dug in his pocket for the key.

It wasn’t there.

Slade went cold.

_ Shit._

He forgot? How could he _forget_? Just because he was—he was—_distracted_ by Dick goddamn Grayson? God damn it, anyone could’ve burst in! Ra’s _himself_! Why hadn’t Dick had the sense to lock the door from the inside?

Slade pushed through the door.

His stomach sank.

_ Oh._

That was why.

He clenched his fist. Flexed. Clenched. Flexed.

Stared into the empty room.

No Dick on the unmade bed. No Dick curled in the chair by the fire. No Dick pacing up and down, scratching at the walls, ruining all Slade’s hard work to heal his leg.

_ God fucking damn it!_

Slade turned, slammed the door, and raced for the stables.


	7. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second fic I've written involving Dick escaping through snowy woodland. I'll have to set my next fic in a desert ... 🤔
> 
> I'm posting this on my mobile, from my hotel room in hygge Copenhagen! While the city is lovely, AO3 on mobile is not, so please let me know if you spot any formatting issues. 😅 I'll fix them up when I'm back home on my laptop.

Even in the woods, the snow was knee-deep.

Dick trudged on, hands crammed in his armpits, feet burning as damp soaked through his socks. Why couldn’t Slade have snuck him a cloak? And some waterproof boots?

He gritted his teeth.

_Slade got me out._

He weaved between the trees, each step slow and heavy and miserable. His soul mark burned, sharp and spiteful.

And then, up ahead—tracks.

Dick groaned, weight pouring off his shoulders.

Tracks meant people, and people meant trails, and trails meant no more fighting through snow. His toes throbbed. He wiggled them. They felt strange. Disconnected. Gradually numbing from the cold.

Breath steaming in front of him, Dick pushed forward.

* * *

He should’ve found Dick by now.

Even with an hour’s head start, an injured man wading through snow in unfamiliar territory shouldn’t have got this far. Slade pulled his horse to a stop; it tossed its head and he patted its neck absently.

Slade stared back up the winding road to the castle. Blew out a hard breath.  
Surely Dick came this way? Either side of the road, the snow piled up as high as Slade’s chest. No one would be stupid enough to fight through that, much less without furs and oilskins. So Dick must have taken the road.

But Slade should’ve caught up to him by now.

Gritting his teeth, Slade turned to look down the road. The sun painted the snow red-gold as it melted behind the mountain peaks. Soon, Dick would be lost in the dark, in a plummeting temperature. And god forbid it start snowing.

Slade swept his gaze over the cliffs and valleys and trees. If only he could sweep them away. Stamp the landscape flat. He’d find Dick in an instant.

_The trees …_

Slade sagged. Of course. Cover from prying eyes, shelter from the wind, shallower snow. That was where Dick went.

And the damn idiot would end up turned around, fallen down a snowdrift and shredded by wolves. If he didn’t accidentally step clean off the mountainside.

Groaning, Slade turned his horse, and headed back uphill, searching for a path through the snow into the trees.

* * *

Dick’s leg was about to shatter.

The cold wormed through his skin, tearing into already-aching muscle, spreading shards of ice through his shinbone. Each step felt like treading on an icicle. Like waiting for the bone to break apart like glass.

He trembled, teeth chattering so hard his jaw ached.

And he kept moving.

The trail was easier than the snow, at least. It weaved downhill, snaking through the trees, gradually drawing Dick to the base of the mountain. How many days’ walk did he have? Too many, if he didn’t warm up soon.

Which was unlikely, as the sun slipped below the treetops and the woods turned blue, then purple. Dick had to stop before they went black, but he kicked on a little further. Further. He just needed a good place to stop. Somewhere warm. Sheltered.

Orange light flared through the trees.

Dick faltered, heart leaping into his throat. A search party? He stared, muscles tense, ready to turn and run. To dive back in the deep snow, if he had to, and hide. But the light didn’t move, and no other appeared.

He strained, and distant, muffled chatter filtered up the trail. High, children’s voices weaved among lower adult tones—a family.

A house. 

Probably the home of a woodcutter, or a huntsman. If they had a barn, or a shed …

He stumbled forward. Somewhere to hide. To sleep. He could curl up with goats and sheep and pigs; the smell would be worth the warmth.

_Spoilt prince indeed._

He snorted, and then panged for Slade.

Slade sitting by the fire, smirking, throwing good-natured insults. Or bad-natured insults. Or, occasionally, pillows. And he always missed, and he always acted like it wasn’t on purpose.

Rubbing his itching soul mark, Dick staggered into a clearing.  
The cottage was compact, with a steep, sloping roof and shuttered windows. Only one was thrown open, spilling out steam and the smell of cooking spices. Dick’s stomach snarled.

He curled his arms around his body and shuffled away.

No barn—he sagged—but a lean-to by the door was half-packed with drying logs. Dick crept closer, gauging the leftover space, fingers burning, teeth clattering. He reached up. Not exactly a comfortable bed, but at least it was dry. He could climb up. Sleep there until—

The front door opened.

The man in the doorway gaped, bow-legged, ruddy-faced, and frozen in shock.

Dick stumbled back, hands raised in surrender. ‘Sorry.’ He fought to pronounce the word in Nanda Parbat exactly as Damian taught him. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

The man’s eyebrows fell low over his eyes. He said something, maybe a question, too fast and complex for Dick to understand.

Dick shook his head, backing up another step. ‘Sorry.’ He could run, but then the man might chase him, and if he was a huntsman …

The man’s eyes widened. ‘Gotham?’

‘No!’ Dick swallowed, picking at phrases Damian managed to knock into his head. ‘I am from Nanda Parbat.’

But the man laughed. ‘Gotham.’ He gave a decisive nod. Then he beckoned. ‘Come in.’

Dick didn’t move.

The man switched to Dick’s own language. ‘Night is cold.’ His accent was thicker than Ra’s and Slade’s, each word coming out as heavy and stilted as Dick’s Nanda Parbat. ‘Too cold.’ He mimed shivering, rubbing his arms. ‘We are good. Yes? Come in, or you will die. Too cold.’

As if taking his side, the wind gusted behind Dick, shaking the trees and blistering through Dick’s wet clothes, burning down to his bones. He shuddered.

But he couldn’t … he couldn’t risk …

A boy stepped into the doorway beside the man. He barely reached his father’s shoulder, but they shared the same dark hair and sharp chin. The boy scowled as he took Dick in—and he looked so much like Damian, Dick’s legs buckled.

He staggered forward, and the man and boy each stepped aside to let him indoors.

Blissful warmth filled the cottage. Fresh shivers crawled over Dick’s skin as the man shut the door and the ice seemed to melt from Dick’s bones. The man scooped Dick under his arm and swept him into a dark room lined with cots.

The whole family must sleep in here.

For the first time in years, Dick longed for the caravan he slept in with his parents as a child. Crushed between them when he was really small, then sleeping on his own cot when he was older, listening to his parents snuffle and snore. His own room in Gotham had seemed unbearably silent at first.

The man dug in a trunk under one of the cots and emerged with a pile of fresh clothes. He gestured at Dick’s wet things. ‘Fire will dry. Yes?’

‘Thank you.’ Dick took the clothes with numb fingers. He couldn’t imagine why this man would be so kind. Dick must’ve seemed like a lost Gotham spy or soldier, at the very least.

Maybe he just doesn’t like the idea of anyone freezing to death on his doorstep.  
The man pointed at his chest. ‘Nasim.’ He gestured at Dick.

Dick hesitated. ‘John.’

‘Shon.’ The man—Nasim—nodded. Then, smiling, he stepped out and left Dick to change.

Ten minutes later, Dick knelt at a low table eating hot, spiced rice with the man’s family—a wife, two daughters, three sons (including the boy who looked like Damian), and an older man who must’ve been a grandparent. His clothes and boots hung over a grate by the fire, steaming as they dried. After the meal, they passed out small cups of frothy, bitter tea, giving Dick a cracked black cup that he supposed was no one’s favourite. He didn’t mind.

Didn’t like the tea, anyway. He sipped enough to appear polite. The family chattered, throwing smiles and sideways glances at Dick as they drank.

He didn’t understand a word they said, but he hadn’t felt so at home in weeks.

* * *

The woodland trails wound and twisted, splitting and joining and branching apart again like tangled ropes.

And Slade couldn’t fathom which path Dick had taken.

His horse snorted and tossed its head, stomping too loud as it picked its way down the mountain. Because Slade could only guess that Dick probably headed downhill. Slade rubbed the horse’s flank. ‘I know. It’s late; you’re tired. I know.’

He’d missed two meals at the castle now. Ra’s wouldn’t ignore that. The road was likely already crawling with soldiers.

Up ahead, something moved through the trees.

Slade straightened. ‘Dick?’

The thing stopped.

Staring, Slade made out dark hair. Warm breath clouding in the air. He slipped out his saddle. ‘Dick—’

The figure tore away through the trees, as fast and confident as if they’d run this way a thousand times. And now, with his feet on the ground, Slade realised they were too short to be Dick.

And his soul mark still itched.

He turned, staring down the trail the figure had come from.

Swinging back up into the saddle, Slade tugged the reins. His horse huffed, and plodded down the trail.

* * *

Dick hadn’t realised he was so tired.

His eyes drooped, his head sagging, even as Nasim’s family laughed at some joke he hadn’t understood. Shaking himself, Dick straightened. And now the family weren’t at the table anymore. Nasim’s wife scrubbed pots and pans in a basin by the window. The two daughters sat by the fire, weaving string between their fingers, slowly creating some lacy garment that spilled over their laps. The boys sat with their grandfather, listening to some story or lesson. Only Nasim himself bent over the table, scrubbing it down with a cloth.

Every few seconds he hesitated, looking up over Dick’s shoulder at the door down the hallway.

Nasim’s wife turned, and said something sharp. Nasim looked up—first at her, and then at Dick. His eyes widened for an instant, before he smiled. Reaching across the table, he pushed the last remaining cup at Dick. The black cracked cup. Dick’s unfinished tea swirled inside, no longer steaming.

‘No.’ Dick held up a hand, then rubbed his head as the floor rocked beneath him. He felt like he’d taken a blow from a hammer. ‘No thank you.’

Nasim pushed the cup a little closer, almost to the edge of the table. ‘Good,’ he said, in his thickly accented Gotham. ‘Good for the head.’

Dick took the teacup. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t drink. Instead, he scanned the room again, counting heads. Parents. Grandfather. Two daughters. And …

He frowned. Where was the boy who looked like Damian?

He chewed his tongue for a moment, piecing the Nanda Parbat words together in his head like toy bricks. ‘Where is your son?’

Nasim gestured to the two boys sitting with their grandfather. ‘My sons.’

‘No.’ Dick swallowed. The teacup was cold in his hand. The light from the fireplace blurred and focused, blurred and focused. ‘You have three sons.’ At Nasim’s nonplussed stare, he held up three fingers. ‘Three boys.’

Nasim shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’ He mimed sipping from a glass. ‘Drink, drink.’

Dick pretended to take a sip, lips clamped firmly together. He wiped them dry on the back of his hand. ‘Thank you.’ He forced a smile. Set the teacup down on the edge of the table.

And, with a barely perceptible flick of the wrist, ‘accidentally’ knocked it off.

The cup cracked on the floor, and its contents seeped into the gaps between the floorboards.

Nasim’s wife hissed.

Dick raised his hands, trying to look sheepish. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

Tucking his feet under him, he got up. The room swayed around him, but he held his balance. He’d been drunk before, once or twice. This didn’t feel much different, except for the headache.

He skirted around the table and plucked his now-dry clothes from the grate by the fire. Nasim’s daughters skittered away as he bent to retrieve his boots.

‘Thank you,’ Dick said slowly. ‘I am going now.’

‘No, no, no!’ Nasim shot to his feet. ‘It’s too dark. Too cold.’

‘That is all right.’ Dick tugged his boots on. His shoulder hit the door before he got his balance back. He groped for the handle.

Nasim lunged.

Dick wrenched the door open, slipped through, and ran.

The hallway cartwheeled around him—and god, what was in that tea?—but the cottage was small, and it took all of three steps for Dick to slam into the front door. He wrenched it open.

And stared straight up into the eyes of Ra’s al Ghul.


	8. Sharp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags above re: violence, in case you wanna check. :) Nothing you wouldn't see on, say, Game of Thrones but best to be safe!

‘Richard.’ Ra’s stepped into the house.

Dick staggered back. The floor melted and wobbled and solidified under his boots. His heart thudded, too large for his ribcage.

‘And just where are you heading in such a hurry, in the dead of night?’ Ra’s glanced over Dick’s shoulder. ‘It’s terribly ungrateful to leave when this family has been so kind. Is this how you repay generosity in Gotham?’

Dick didn’t respond, because he couldn’t trust his dry mouth to form anything comprehensible. Ra’s stepped closer again, and Dick shrank back, clutching his dry clothes like a shield. Behind Ra’s, another figure stepped in the doorway.

The third son.

He stared up at Dick, face flushed, eyes gleaming with vindictive glee.

Maybe he didn’t look so much like Damian after all.

And behind the boy, in the clearing around the house …

Nanda Parbat soldiers. A dozen of them. Weapons gleaming, bundled in furs, sitting astride monstrous warhorses.

Dick swayed.

Ra’s lunged, gripping his arm. ‘This is what is going to happen,’ he murmured, cold and soft and deadly. ‘I will explain you are a diplomatic guest, and you became lost in the woods. You will nod, and smile, and apologise for inconveniencing this nice family. And then you come quietly back to Nanda Parbat, where I will ensure you don’t see daylight again until you dear father comes to collect you. And nobody needs to know what a shameful, ungrateful _coward_ you are.’

On the word ‘coward’, his grip tightened, fingers digging into Dick’s skin like iron pokers. Dick hissed. He tugged his arm, but Ra’s didn’t budge.

‘I’m not a coward,’ Dick spat. ‘You just want to cover up that I escaped.’

Ra’s flashed his teeth, just for an instant, as if resisting the urge to snarl. ‘Alternatively, I can allow my soldiers to take their revenge on you for dragging them out in the middle of the night, and then burn this charming cottage to the ground.’

Cold flooded down Dick’s spine. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Why? Do you think I’m afraid to hand you back to Wayne in pieces?’ Ra’s glanced over Dick’s shoulder. ‘Or do you think I can’t spare _them_?’

Dick turned. Nasim’s family crowded the doorway to the next room, their faces shadowed, firelight flickering in their hair. Dick reached for righteous fury and couldn’t find it. Nasim’s eyes were wide enough to show the whites all the way round his pupils. His wife stared straight past Dick, at her son in the doorway, as if she longed to shove past Dick and Ra’s and gather him up.

They were scared. Just a poor, scared family who found a Gotham escapee on their doorstep and did what they thought was best. Would anyone in Gotham act differently, if they found someone from Nanda Parbat lost and alone in the woods?

_Yes,_ he thought grimly. _They wouldn’t waste their dinner on him._

Ra’s wouldn’t hand Dick back to Bruce in pieces. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted Bruce to keep his word. But this family …

‘All right.’ He turned back to Ra’s. The hallway rocked. ‘All right, I’ll go with you.’

Ra’s gave him a thin, hard smile. ‘Excellent choice.’

* * *

Slade knew he was going the right way when his soul mark warmed.

He knew Dick had fucked up when he saw lights between the trees.

The closer he rode to the lights, the more his soul mark warmed, and the more his stomach sank. Soldiers. They held up torches, thank god. They could’ve been holding swords. Slade swiped a hand over his face and through his hair, schooling his expression before he broke into the clearing around the cottage.

The soldiers looked up at him, a few reaching for their swords before their eyes widened with recognition. They had enough discipline not to snigger, but they smirked as Slade drew his horse to a halt and jumped down.

He marched to the captain guarding the front door. ‘You found him?’

No use denying he’d lost Dick. If he was careful and clever, Slade could get back to Nanda Parbat with Ra’s suspicious, rather than downright murderous.

The captain inclined his head—unnecessarily, as Ra’s then emerged in the doorway, pushing Dick in front of him.

Slade’s chest filled with heat. He clamped his teeth together, hands trembling with the need to snatch Dick away. To tear Ra’s al Ghul’s hand off his shoulder. To kill anyone who got near him.

Dick’s gaze fixed on Slade, and the heat in Slade’s chest vanished like a blown out candle. A chill swept through him. Dick’s face was flushed, his eyes wide and dark. He swayed as Ra’s pushed him.

Drugged.

And where the hell had he gotten those clothes? He clutched the clothes Slade gave him to his chest in a big, messy bundle, like a child clinging to a doll.

‘Slade,’ Ra’s said. ‘Good of you to join us.’

Slade folded his arms—a good enough way to hide his shaking hands, and to restrain the urge to punch Ra’s in the jaw. ‘He’s alive, then.’

‘No thanks to you.’ Ra’s stared, cold and deadly as the cracking of ice underfoot. ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’

‘The little bastard escaped.’ Slade shrugged. ‘I’ve wasted a day hunting him down.’

‘And you didn’t think to alert anyone else in Nanda Parbat that a precious asset had walked out the door? Interesting.’ Ra’s remained cool. Expressionless. ‘And _how_ did he escape, exactly? He seemed quite secure this morning.’

Slade gave him a hard smile. ‘That’s something I’ll enjoy getting out of him. Once I have him _secure _again.’

Ra’s scoffed. ‘You won’t have Richard again, secure or not. He will remain in my care from now on.’

If Ra’s wanted a rise out of Slade, he’d have to do better than that. Thank god Dick was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, although his gaze remained fixed on Slade’s face, his eyes wide. 

Slade rolled his eye, as if this was a minor inconvenience and his heart wasn’t pounding. ‘Whatever you think is best.’

‘I’m glad you said so.’ Ra’s wound his arm around Dick’s chest; Dick twisted away in obvious revulsion. ‘Because _I think_ the boy’s more trouble than he’s worth.’

Ra’s flicked his hand and a knife flashed out of his sleeve.

He wasn’t going to kill Dick. That was obvious. It was a ploy, and a feeble one at that. Ra’s needed Dick as a bargaining chip. He could wave around all the knives he wanted—Slade knew there was no chance he’d ever spill a drop of Richard Grayson’s precious blood.

Never.

Not. Ever.

The knife pricked Dick’s throat.

And Slade lunged.

It was only a step. One small, treacherous step, and a snarl tearing out of Slade’s throat before he could stop it, his heart thundering, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

And Ra’s smirked.

And Slade could have turned his bow backwards and shot himself.

_Idiot! Goddamn overprotective soul mated _idiot_!_

Hands closed on his arms before he could draw breath. His snarl simmered to a growl, because there was no point hiding it now. No point fighting the instinct to bare his teeth and curl his fists. More hands gripped his shoulders, his elbows, his wrists. They dragged him down to his knees. Slade trembled, jaw aching as he ground his teeth, fighting to shove them off. _Too many. Too strong._ Even for him. Snow soaked through his trousers, stinging cold.

Lowering his knife, Ra’s yanked Dick’s arm forward and tugged up his sleeve. Dick hissed, but as he moved Ra’s raised the knife once more, jabbing the sharp tip under Dick’s jaw. Dick fell still, teeth bared, eyes blazing.

The soul mark practically glowed. Soft blue feathers, glittering gold arrow.

Ra’s raised his eyebrows, smile curling wider. ‘I thought so.’ His eyes flashed up to meet Slade’s. ‘And where is yours? On your hand, I believe?’

He gave a sharp nod to one of the faceless bastards holding Slade down. They jerked his arm up; ripped off his glove. Snarling, Slade tightened his fist but one of them dug their fingers in and prised his hand open.

And the matching soul mark burned in his palm.

Dick’s face creased, as if in shock or pain. As if he’d never seen it before. But Ra’s only nodded, as if _he’d_ seen it a thousand times.

‘Such a shame,’ Ra’s sighed. ‘You were so loyal.’

Letting go of Dick’s wrist, he waved to one of the few soldiers _not_ struggling to pin Slade down. Dick drew his arm into his chest, cradling his wrist. The soldier swung down from his horse and stepped forward.

‘You should have told me, Slade,’ Ra’s said. ‘I might have let you keep him.’

Slade’s throat tightened. ‘No point lying to me, Ra’s.’

Ra’s held his stare, unblinking. ‘I suppose not. But we can’t very well return the little prince with your stain on him.’ He twisted the knife at Dick’s throat; Dick hissed and Slade snarled, tugging again at the soldiers holding him. ‘Let’s see if we can resolve this without damaging him, shall we?’ Ra’s turned to the soldier. ‘Remove Slade’s soul mark.’

The soldier slipped a knife from his belt.

Slade’s stomach dropped. He closed his fist again, fingers slipping out of the grip of the men holding him. Growling, he fought to curl his arm back in. They wanted to carve his skin off? Let them try. Let them _see_ what happened if they were stupid enough to put a knife near his hand.

Slade shifted, getting his weight on one knee. Not enough for them to notice, but enough to free his other leg. To give him room to lash out with a kick. He only needed to take out one of them; the rest were pressed so close together they’d tumble like dominos.

_Knock them down. Take the knife. Save Dick._

_Run._

Heart racing, breathing hard, Slade watched the soldier with the knife approach. He’d have to time it right. But he could do that. He’d escaped worse than this before, unscathed.

Mostly.

Ra’s waved a hand. ‘Don’t worry about delicacy. Take his hand.’

Slade’s breath hitched.

_No—_

The soldier tucked his knife away and drew his sword in one fast, smooth motion.

Slade barely saw the silver flash of the blade before it whirled down and severed his hand from his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please direct all your best one-armed jokes to the comments section now. And if I seem callous, don't worry. Slade's going to be ALL RIGHT.
> 
> :D
> 
> GEDDIT?
> 
> :D :D
> 
> (I'm so sorry.)


	9. Bleeding

_Blood._

Dick didn’t so much hear Slade scream as _feel_ it. An animal roar of pain and rage that rattled Dick’s bones; crushed his chest; blistered the soul mark on his wrist. Dick’s stomach vaulted, and he opened his mouth to scream, and instead folded over and vomited. Ra’s knife stung the edge of Dick’s throat, nicking just below the skin before Ra’s whipped it aside.

_ So much blood._

Slade’s right hand hit the snow with a soft thump. It landed with the palm upturned, fingers curled like a dead spider’s legs. The soul mark glowed.

Dick straightened, mouth burning. Ra’s reached for him, but he staggered away. His arms shook around the bundle of clothes still clutched to his chest. He couldn’t loosen his grip.

He turned to Slade, longing to haul him up, even as he backed away, avoiding Ra’s’s second swipe. Longing to hold Slade. To shield him.

But Slade … Slade was already _moving_.

Impossibly, the soldiers holding Slade tumbled, falling one into another. He rose up like flames bursting from gunpowder, snarling, bleeding, single eye blazing. He snatched a knife from his belt plunged it into the eye of the man who’d taken his hand.

The man fell back with a shriek. Slade wrenched the knife back. Blood bubbled down the soldier’s face, and he tumbled into the snow, hands over his face, gargling.

A soldier from the pack behind Slade got to his knees. Slade whirled and kicked. The soldier’s nose crunched under Slade’s boot. He collapsed. Slade swiped his knife at another; kicked another in the temple, and they were all moving so fast, writhing and twisting and bleeding and screaming.

Dick whirled, snow seeping back into his boots. The forest tilted around him. He needed a weapon. A knife, a sword, something, he needed to _help—_

A horse stood at the edge of the trees, broad and dark and strong. More like an animal meant for the plough than a warhorse. And peeking from the scabbard on its saddle …

_ My sword._

The shout burst out of Dick’s throat before he could think. He raced across the snow; swerved around a soldier swinging down from his own horse; skidded past the silver swish of a blade. He hit the horse’s shoulder full tilt. The horse snorted, but didn’t skitter or bolt. And when Dick reached up and leaped into the saddle, it didn’t try to throw him off.

Dick threw his clothes up across the horse’s back. He leaned down, and drew his sword with the soft, leathery whisper of metal on scabbard. Its weight in his palm was like putting on familiar clothes. His fingers found the familiar notches in the handle; his thumb ran over the sapphire embedded in the hilt—a gift from Selina. _Even deadly things should be beautiful,_ she’d said.

A kick, and the horse ploughed, screaming, into the soldiers.

It trampled one soldier underfoot; Dick’s stomach flipped as the horse lurched and leaped off his body. Dick swung his sword down at another soldier, slashing through his shoulder. The soldier turned and swiped at Dick, his eyes wide and white with pain. Heat seared through Dick’s leg and he cried out, but the horse was already surging past the soldier, racing towards Slade—

—Who staggered at a blow to his face. He hit the ground on one knee, clutching his brutalised arm to his chest. Blood seeped down his tunic. His face was red and white with pain.

But his single eye flicked up and fixed on Dick. And before the soldiers could land another blow on him, the horse burst through them. Slade sprang up with a roar and leaped into the saddle behind Dick.

Slade shouted something in the Nanda Parbat language, and the horse swerved and bolted into the darkness of the trees. Dick clung to his sword, sweat trickling, warm and sticky, down the back of his neck. Around him, the trees swayed and whirled, black shapes on a near-black background. The branches crawled and writhed like fingers, and the shouts of Ra’s al Ghul’s men grew and faded, as though one moment they were miles behind, and the next they stood inches away. The world flipped and cartwheeled and his stomach clenched.

His sword hand shook. The sword made sense. Familiar. Sharp. Safe.

Wet heat drenched his back.

Behind him, Slade shifted. He gripped Dick’s shoulder. ‘Clothes—give me—’

Hand shaking, Dick snatched up the bundle of clothes he’d thrown across the saddle and passed it back over his shoulder.

He heard fabric tear. Slade grunting; snarling; hissing as he staunched his bloody wrist. Then, worst of all, a low, gasping sob.

‘Slade—’ Dick fumbled for the reins.

‘Keep going.’ Slade’s voice shook. ‘They’ll catch us.’

Dick wasn’t sure if he could still hear the thundering hooves of Ra’s al Ghul’s men. It might’ve been his blood, pounding in his ears. But keeping going didn’t require anything from him, besides holding on. The horse galloped, threading through the trees, flitting down dark trails. It leaped and plunged and raced as if it, at least, knew exactly where to go.

So Dick kept hanging on.

* * *

Dawn broke over the trees before they stopped.

The horse slowed, picking its way down to an open, winding river that twisted through a flat expanse in the trees. It headed straight for the water, and here Slade finally reached for the reins and drew it to a stop.

Dick looked at Slade over his shoulder. His head pounded. His stomach turned in somersaults. His fingers felt frozen to the pommel of his sword, as if he’d never manage to prise them open again.

Slade gave him a wan smile.

And slipped out the saddle.

He landed in the snow on his back, his face grey, his single eye glassy.

‘Slade!’ Dick scrambled down. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, and his sword fell from his grip after all. Dick let it land in the snow. He lunged at Slade, gripping his shoulders. ‘Slade!’

Groaning, Slade blinked up at him, mumbled, ‘Fuck,’ and slumped back in the snow. For a single, heart-stopping moment, he didn’t move. Then he licked his lips. ‘Water. I need water.’

Shaking, Dick got his arm around Slade’s shoulders and heaved him towards the river. Slade thrust his head clean under the icy water, then drew back with a gasp, water droplets flying from the ends of his hair. He lifted his right arm as if to swipe it over his face, saw the rag-bound stump at the end of his arm, and paled.

He lowered it, shoulders trembling. Dick gripped him tighter.

‘Fuck. _Fuck!_’

Slade slammed his remaining fist into the ground. For a moment he sat there, hunched, gasping. Dick slipped back for a moment, wondering if Slade might throw up. Then he crept forward, and put a hand between Slade’s shoulder blades.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, or tried to. The words caught in a sob in his throat, and came out as broken, near-soundless croaks. He wanted to scream. _It’s all my fault. It’s my fault you had to come help me. It’s my fault you’re hurt._

Slade reached back, and pulled Dick roughly down, dragging him in close to his side. He pressed his mouth to the top of Dick’s head, partly a kiss, partly as if to bury his face in Dick’s hair. Finally, he drew back. ‘I know somewhere we can go. People who can help us. We have to keep moving.’

Dick shook his head. ‘You need to rest.’

‘They’ll catch us if we rest too long.’

‘Then I won’t let us be too long.’ Dick got his arm around Slade’s shoulders again.

Lifting him was impossible, but Dick could at least offer an ounce of support as Slade staggered to the shelter of a tree and lay back in a dry spot between its roots. Dick kissed his temple, but Slade’s eye was already closed, and in another second he was breathing slow and even.

Chest tight, Dick latched on to the sound. If Slade was breathing, everything was all right.

He forced himself up. Drank from the river; drank too much and threw up. The horse tried to drink through its bridle, so Dick got up again despite his aching stomach and unbuckled the horse’s tack, piling it carefully beside Slade. He found a brush in one of the saddlebags and ran it over the horse’s back and neck and legs while it drank, his mind as soft and empty as fog. There was food in the saddlebags, too. He gave an apple to the horse and nibbled another himself with a slice of bread, praying it would soak up whatever was left of that tea.

The horse finished its apple, nibbled at the scrubby, thorny bushes between the trees, and then snoozed, standing over Slade like a guardian spirit.

_Maybe it is, _Dick thought, hefting his sword off the ground and wiping down the blood and snow before sliding it back in its sheath. He’d never seen a horse run like that, as swift and tireless as ripples of wind over a meadow.

He didn’t let himself sleep.

He watched the sun crest in the sky, and then re-saddled the horse and woke Slade up with an offer of bread and smoked meat from the saddlebags. Grey-faced, Slade sat up with a groan and ate. His bloody arm hung limp in his lap.

Dick wanted to ask why Slade had his sword. Why his saddlebags were already packed with food as if he’d been planning a long journey for weeks. Why he’d come to help Dick, after giving Dick all the opportunity he needed to escape by himself.

But his eyes were heavy, and his head ached, and his mouth remained dry despite sip after careful sip of cold river water.

A few minutes later, Dick clambered back up on the horse. ‘What’s he called?’

Slade hauled himself up behind Dick. ‘Nightwing.’

As they rode on, Dick slumped against Slade’s chest and slept.


	10. Safe

Dick didn’t feel like he was sleeping. Not really. Not the deep, restful kind of sleep he’d enjoyed in Slade’s bed in Nanda Parbat castle, with the fire whispering and Slade breathing softly in his chair and the collar digging into Dick’s throat. But every time Dick opened his eyes, the trees and streams and trails were different, and the air was a little brighter.

The horse jostled him as it picked over roots and forded streams. And Slade bowed lower and lower by the minute, pressing into Dick’s back, his blood had drying stiff and sticky in Dick’s tunic.

Dick’s legs hurt. Both of them. Cold, sharp stabs shot through his shinbone where Slade’s arrow pierced his leg weeks ago. His other leg felt too hot, tingling and burning near his knee where the soldier slashed him.

Then they reached the house with the flower garden.

It looked like a dream. The cottage was golden-brown as gingerbread. Despite the snow, the flowerbeds and window boxes shone pink and purple and yellow as if someone had swept winter away. A wheel turned lazily in the icy river.

Nightwing slowed his pace, and shook his mane. Dick straightened, blinking hard, because any minute this perfect little cottage would disappear, and he’d wake up and find they were still riding through the woods.

Slade didn’t move at all.

‘Slade?’ Dick reached back to touch his leg. ‘Slade, I think we’re here.’

Wherever _here_ was.

Slade grumbled softly. Inside the house, voices started up. Probably asking each other who was outside their door.

‘Slade?’ Dick turned, looking up at him.

Slade’s single eye was half-lidded and unfocused, his mouth hanging slack. His face was grey.

Chest tight, Dick slipped out the saddle. At his absence, Slade jolted. He stared around wildly, found Dick on the ground, and grunted in understanding. Leaning forward, Slade dropped out the saddle.

And Dick caught him before he landed flat in the snow.

He might as well have caught a sack of bricks. Slade sagged against him, too heavy and breathing hard, his face creased. Dick slung Slade’s arm over his shoulders, gripped him round the middle, and dragged him painfully towards the door. One step. Another. Dick’s legs shook.

The door burst open.

A woman with golden hair and scarlet lips snarled out at them. She gripped a hammer in one fist—the kind Dick had seen on the battlefield, long-handled and spiked. ‘Who the hell are—?’

Dick’s chest tightened. But before he could think of a way to reach for his sword without dropping Slade, the woman lowered her hammer.

‘_Slade?_’

Slade raised his head, apparently with great effort. ‘Harley.’

And then his eye rolled back, and he slumped, dragging Dick with him.

‘Woah, woah, woah, woah!’ The woman’s war hammer crashed to the ground as she darted out, both arms up to catch Slade before he could pull Dick into the snow. ‘God, Slade, what happened to you?’

She reached for Slade’s right arm, as if to loop it over her shoulders.

And then she saw his hand.

Or rather, the bloody bandages where his hand should have been.

She paled. ‘What _happened_?’ she whispered. But before Dick could attempt a response, she got her shoulder under Slade’s armpit and hauled him forward. ‘C’mon. Inside.’

Harley must’ve been five foot two on tiptoes, but she dragged both Slade and Dick into the cottage without a whimper of effort. Another woman waited in the doorway, red hair gleaming almost as bright as the knife in her hand.

‘Is that … Slade?’ The woman tucked the knife in her belt.

Harley grunted. ‘Clear the table.’

‘We have to eat off that,’ the other woman sighed, but she swept the cups and plates and tasteful vase of flowers off the kitchen table. Then she ducked in and took Slade’s legs, helping them hoist him up on the table instead. ‘Oh my god, what happened to his hand?’

Harley shot Dick a look across the table. ‘I was gonna ask that. And who’re you?’

She didn’t look like she came from Nanda Parbat. She didn’t sound like it, either, and now Dick realised with a jolt they were both speaking the Gotham language. The red-haired woman had a soft, rolling accent; she might’ve come from the countryside. But Harley had the same hard, nasal twang as Jason, and all the street kids in the capital.

The words _prince _and _captive_ floated into his head, but it all felt too distant and wild and bizarre, so instead Dick pushed back his sleeve and showed them the mark on his wrist. ‘I’m his soul mate.’

The women froze. Their eyes darted from the mark to Slade’s face to the bloody stump of Slade’s wrist. Harley whispered a curse.

‘That’s Slade’s arrow, all right,’ Ivy murmured.

Harley nodded. ‘You,’ she jabbed a finger at Dick, ‘go tell Ivy what the hell happened.’ She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. ‘I’ll fix this idiot.’ She put a hand on Slade’s shoulder, and the touch was soft enough that Dick wanted to trust her.

Ivy swept an arm around Dick’s shoulders and pulled him across the room to sit in a soft, high-backed chair by the fire. One that faced away from the kitchen. Dick turned to watch Harley, but Ivy pushed him back around.

‘You don’t want to see that.’ Her tone softened. ‘Don’t worry, Harley was a physiker back in Gotham. She knows what she’s doing.’

‘Eighty-eight percent survival rate!’ Harley said cheerfully, from somewhere behind Dick.

‘Not helping, Harl,’ Ivy called back. As she turned her head, her hair spilled over her shoulder, revealing the soul mark creeping up her neck. The _coloured_ soul mark. Vines as green as springtime wound up the column of her throat to the corner of her jaw, twisting and weaving together, broad leaves flowing out over her skin. Dotted between the vines, as if they’d just flowered that morning, were tiny scarlet and back roses. Ivy turned back to Dick. ‘I’ll go take care of your horse.’

Not feeling exactly comforted, Dick nodded weakly.

Ivy strode away. He heard Nightwing snort outside, and then quiet murmurs and soft hoofbeats, and quiet. Ivy came in a few minutes later, brushing off her hands and letting a blast of cold air into the cottage. ‘Let me make tea before you get blood all over the kitchen.’

‘You have until I boil these tools,’ Harley sang back, her voice growing closer as she sauntered into Dick’s line of vision, carrying a cauldron the size of two cupped hands. She hung it over the fire. Tiny knives, tweezers and needles glinted menacingly in the water. Physiker’s tools.

Ivy crashed around in the kitchen. The air filled with a smell suspiciously similar to the stuff Dick drank at the woodcutter’s house. He tensed and got to his feet, prepared to refuse it, but instead Ivy tipped up Slade’s head and poured it down his throat.

‘The herbs will numb the pain,’ she explained, catching Dick’s eye. ‘And make him sleep.’

Dick hesitated. Slade didn’t look like he needed any help sleeping. But he remembered the sting of waking up as Slade tried to dress his injured leg back at Nanda Parbat, and pressed his lips together. Slowly, he sank back into his chair.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harley murmured, prodding her cauldron of tools with a fire poker. Her hair hung in plaits either side of her neck, covering what must’ve been a soul mark to match Ivy’s on her own throat. ‘We ain’t gonna hurt him.’ She stood. ‘Water’s boiled. My turn in the kitchen.’

As she scooped up the cauldron in a tea towel, Ivy took the seat by the fire opposite Dick’s, and thrust another cup of tea into his hands. ‘It’s just chamomile.’ She lifted her own mug. ‘I’m drinking the same.’ When Dick didn’t sip, she smirked. ‘We can swap cups if you want. Or I can sip from both of them. It’s not poisonous.’

‘Maybe you’re immune,’ Dick muttered, because he was sure he’d heard that in a story once. But he blew on his tea and sipped as Ivy chuckled. Warmth spread through his bones.

Ivy leaned forward. ‘So what happened? How the hell did Slade manage to lose a hand?’ Her gaze flicked to Dick’s wrist. ‘And when did he get a soul mate?’

Dick chewed the inside of his cheek. How much did Slade trust these women? Was _he _supposed to trust them?

They were clearly from Gotham, but they lived in Nanda Parbat. So who _were _they? Traitors? Deserters? Spies? Slade’s soul mate or not, Dick was a prince. A valuable prisoner. Would they sell him back to Ra’s? Kill him?

He winced.

Surely Slade wouldn’t take Dick to people who’d hurt him?

Unless Slade expected Dick to be smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

‘Hello?’ Ivy clicked her fingers. ‘You in there?’

Dick shook his head. ‘Yes. Sorry. My name is John—’

Ivy snorted. ‘No it’s not.’ She sat back, settling her tea in her lap. ‘I lived in Gotham. Don’t bullshit me, Prince Richard.’

‘Dick,’ Dick corrected automatically. And then he went cold. ‘I—I didn’t mean—’

‘Just tell me the truth.’ Ivy’s voice was low, and even, and just barely on the edge of threatening. Her eyes softened. ‘You can trust us, Dick.’

Dick glanced down at his tea. Behind him, Harley was humming over disturbingly wet noises. But Slade hadn’t woken up screaming, and the fire was warm, and the tea was warm, and he was so damn tired, and the pain in his legs was pounding harder as he got warmer.

‘All right,’ he murmured. ‘All right.’

And he told her the truth.

Ivy remained quiet, although she smiled faintly when Dick described the soul marks appearing, and touched her own mark on her neck. She winced when he told her about the cottage in the woods, and the drugged tea, and the flash of metal before Slade’s hand dropped in the snow. Harley, although Dick couldn’t see her, whooped and laughed and booed as though it was all just a story.

By the time he was done, Dick could’ve slept for a decade.

Ivy didn’t ask him any questions. She took his cup, got quietly to her feet and headed into the kitchen. Harley murmured something like, ‘Hold this for me …’ and Dick let his chin drop to his chest and his eyes close.

He woke up to a hand on his shoulder. It belonged to Harley, and it was clean, although the rag over her shoulder was dark and bloody.

‘Your leg’s bleeding. Let me see.’

‘Thanks.’ Dick twisted, looking for Slade in the kitchen behind him. The place was clean and tidy, the vase of flowers returned to the table.

‘Ivy’s putting Slade to bed.’ Harley knelt, tugged off Dick’s boot, and got to work rolling his trouser leg up. ‘I s’pose he ain’t slept on a pillow for a while.’

Dick swallowed, guilt panging at his stomach, although he had _offered_ to let Slade share the bed with him back in Nanda Parbat. ‘No. He hasn’t.’ He bit his lip. ‘You know Ra’s is looking for us. If he finds us here …’

‘We got places to hide you. Don’t worry, Dick. I swear, you and Slade are safe as houses here.’

The cut must’ve been worse than Dick remembered. His shin was stained with thin trails of blood. He rubbed his soul mark; it was prickling. ‘Is he … is Slade going to be all right?’

‘He will be.’ Harley looked up. Her gaze flicked to Dick’s soul mark, then back to his face. ‘Me and Ivy, we owe Slade a lot. I was married when we met. My husband wasn’t too pleased I’d gone and got another soul mate.’ She lowered her gaze again, and lifted one hand to push a plait back over her shoulder.

And there was her soul mark.

Or at least, what was left of it.

The skin was rough as creased up paper, or the surface of the sea. Burns. Dick sucked a breath between his teeth.

And the longer he stared, the more he could see it. The soul mark. Beneath the scars, green vines weaved over Harley’s skin. Blurred crimson and black stains might’ve once been tiny roses. 

Harley shook her hair back over the scar. ‘Slade got us out. Practically free of charge, which is saying a lot for him, the tight bastard.’ She smiled ruefully. She pushed Dick’s trouser leg up past his knee, revealing an inches-long slice through his skin. ‘That ain’t too bad,’ she murmured. Then she added, ‘Scoot to the edge of the chair, you’re bleedin’ on the cushions.’

Dick shifted forwards. ‘And … and it didn’t … change anything? The … your soul mark … being hurt?’ He couldn’t bring himself to say _gone_. He closed his hand around his wrist.

‘No,’ Harley said softly. ‘It didn’t change the way I felt.’ 

Some of the tightness in Dick’s chest eased. He let out a breath, and stretched his leg out, and closed his eyes while Harley cleaned and stitched and bandaged his knee. And then he fell asleep by the fire, head lolling, and dreamed of blood and snow and being safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I found a way to sneak Harley/Ivy in here. :D
> 
> And have I whumped Slade enough yet? :p Votes?


	11. Guilty Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! Have some pure fluff. :3

Soft footsteps drew Dick halfway out of sleep.

The thump of a hand on the back of his chair woke him the rest of the way.

He jerked upright with a hiss, sharp spikes of pain lancing through his legs as he tensed to leap to his feet. Shadows swallowed the room; the fire was barely more than smoulders. Dick twisted in his seat, hands curled into fists, teeth bared in a snarl.

Slade stared down at him. ‘Dick.’ His voice was like the whisper of tearing paper.

The tension went out of Dick’s body in an instant. He slumped back in his seat. ‘Slade.’

Warmth spread through his body. Slade was awake. Awake, and talking, and moving. Ivy’s tea must’ve done him some good after all.

But then again, perhaps not. Slade shuffled to the other chair and fell into it, shoulders hunched, arm cradled to his chest. His face was bone-pale, his cheekbones thin, his eyes dark. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep as trenches. Dick swallowed. Slade was, well, _older_. But he’d never looked _aged_ like this. 

He’d never looked … old.

‘We made it, then.’ Slade leaned sideways in his chair, head tipping. He closed his eyes, and some of the creases around them smoothed. ‘Good.’

‘Are you … ?’ Dick stopped. He’d been about to say ‘all right’.

Slade snorted, as if he’d said it anyway. ‘Great. Just great.’

‘Ivy gave you something for the pain,’ Dick said softly. ‘Some kind of tea.’

‘It’s working.’ Slade lifted his bad arm, then settled it in his lap. ‘This doesn’t hurt half as much as it should.’

‘It was meant to help you sleep, too.’

‘Woke up and you weren’t there,’ Slade grunted. His head drooped, but he jerked back up again, staring at Dick through strings of lank hair. ‘I got suspicious.’

Dick tried not to smile. ‘Careful. You almost sounded like you were going to say you were _worried_.’

‘Well, there’s no need to exaggerate.’

Slade smiled, and Dick leaned back in his chair, content to watch Slade’s eyes close and his head tilt back. He listened for female voices—for a sign their conversation had roused Harley and Ivy, wherever in the house they were right now. But the only sound was the odd huff of wind over the windows, and the tiny snaps and hisses of the dying embers in the fire. And Slade, breathing slow and deep and steady.

‘I told them everything,’ Dick murmured. ‘Your friends.’

‘Mm.’ Slade’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t open them. ‘It’s not worth lying to Ivy. She’s probably got some herbal truth potion stashed in away in there.’ He waved vaguely at the kitchen with his good hand.

_His only hand._

The thought cut into Dick like a barb.

All the warmth flooded out of him, replaced with blood on snow, and dead fingers curled over the blue and gold of his soul mark. _Their_ soul mark.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, because he couldn’t stop himself.

Slade’s eyes opened. He levelled Dick with a stare as cold and hard as granite. ‘For what?’

Dick’s eyes flicked to Slade’s stump. It was bound up in bandages—clean and white as fresh-fallen snow. ‘Because you had to come help me. You gave me everything I needed to escape, and Ra’s still caught me.’

Slade’s brow creased. ‘I didn’t give you anything.’

‘You …’ Dick frowned. ‘You left the door unlocked.’

‘I _forgot_ to lock the door because _someone_ distracted me.’ Slade’s mouth twitched at the corner, and for a moment it looked like he was about to smile. Then, instead, his face darkened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘You really thought I meant for you to escape Nanda Parbat alone, with no weapons or provisions?’

Cold crept down Dick’s spine. He tried to respond, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a faint creaking noise. He pressed his lips together. Clenched his teeth.

The food in the saddlebags.

Dick’s own sword, shining on Nightwing’s saddle.

The fact Slade had come out after him _at all_.

Slade never meant for him to run. He meant for Dick to _wait_. Wait, and then they’d escape together. Slade knew the terrain, knew Nanda Parbat, knew _Ra’s al Ghul_. If Dick had just waited—

‘You were going to help me.’ Dick buried his face in his palms. ‘_Fuck._’

Slade leaned back in his chair. ‘You could look a little more pleased about it.’

‘Pleased?’ Dick could barely wheeze the word out. He dropped his hands. ‘Slade, I didn’t _know_. I thought—and now—if I’d just _waited_ for you—’ As if drawn magnetically, his gaze slipped again to Slade’s missing hand. _He was an archer._ Dick’s throat closed up. Slade would never draw a bow again. The skill so intrinsic to him, so carved into his being, it appeared on his skin as a soul mark. Gone forever. Gone, with the soul mark. ‘It’s my fault. It’s my _fault_ you got hurt.’

Slade scoffed. ‘Strange. I don’t remember _you_ holding the sword. And I definitely remember _Ra’s_ giving the order.’

Dick shook his head. ‘If I wasn’t your soul mate—’

‘Don’t be fucking idiotic.’ Any hint of humour in Slade’s expression shrivelled. He put his good arm out. ‘Get over here.’

It felt like hauling up a sack of lead, but Dick dragged himself to his feet and shuffled closer. As soon as he stepped within reach, Slade grabbed his tunic and tugged him in. Dick fell into Slade’s lap with a gasp, and Slade locked his good arm around Dick’s body, pulling him up close enough for Dick to smell the stale sweat caking Slade’s skin.

Slade turned his head, pressing his mouth to the hair just above Dick’s temple, and Dick wasn’t sure if Slade meant to kiss him or just breathe him in. ‘I don’t care for self-pity, Dick. I lost a hand. I’ll learn to live with it.’ His hand spread over Dick’s shoulder, fingers flexing and tightening, as if to reassure himself that _one _hand, at least, was still attached and functioning. Or possibly to reassure himself that Dick was truly there, in his grip. ‘I’m not the soul mate you wanted, but I’m not losing you. Not to Ra’s al Ghul.’

Dick hesitated. Then, finally, he let his head sink against Slade’s shoulder. ‘You didn’t want me, either.’

‘I changed my mind.’ Slade’s voice was soft again; a low rumble, barely awake.

Dick curled his legs up to his chest, careful not to jostle Slade’s injured arm. ‘So did I.’

He wasn’t sure if Slade even heard. But the second time he drifted into sleep that night, it was dreamless, and soft as velvet.


	12. Hiding

‘Is something wrong with our spare bed?’

Gold morning light spilled through the windows in dust-speckled beams. Dick was warm, and heavy, and Ivy stood over him with a smirk.

_Bed? _Dick didn’t remember a bed. Just his chair, and the fire, and Slade …

Slade, whose lap he was still curled in.

Heat flooded into his face. Dick jerked upright, and Slade’s arm slipped from his waist as he staggered to his feet.

Ivy laughed, crouching to sweep the fireplace clean. ‘You look better today, Your Highness. More colour in your cheeks.’

Dick groaned a second time. He rolled his stiff neck and shoulders, shaking flecks of rust off his bones. But all he could think to say was, ‘You don’t have to call me that.’

Behind him, Slade let out a soft huff, like he was laughing in his sleep.

Dick touched his arm. ‘Slade?’

Fireplace clean, Ivy piled in fresh logs and kindling. ‘He’s still sleeping off that tea.’ She lit a tinder box after a few attempts and set the fire crackling. She stood up, brushing her hands on her dress, and headed into the kitchen. ‘He’ll wake up when he smells breakfast.’

Despite the aches in his muscles, and the flush burning his face, Dick would’ve gladly sunk back into Slade’s shoulder and dozed off again. Except …

‘Uh, Ivy?’

‘Outhouse is behind the cottage.’ Ivy jerked a thumb over her shoulder, then buried herself in a cupboard and merrily got to work clattering with pots and pans.

Dick turned for the door. ‘Thanks.’

The barn was out the back as well, so after relieving himself, Dick poked his head in to check on Nightwing. Chickens clucked underfoot, and a couple of woolly goats munched on their straw, bleating cheerfully. Nightwing huddled in one corner, looking deeply long-suffering.

‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Dick patted his nose. ‘Don’t like your roommates?’

Nightwing huffed. Out of a mixture of guilt and gratitude, Dick found the saddlebags—balanced up in the rafters—and got an apple for him. He brushed Nightwing down, easing tangles out of his mane and tail, and then lifted his hooves and picked the dirt out of his horseshoes. The work felt comfortable and familiar. He’d helped his father look after their horse, and then cared for his own mare in Gotham, despite the complaints of the farrier.

With Nightwing fed and happy, he turned back to the saddle hanging in the rafters. His sword still hung there in its scabbard, with Slade’s bow tucked behind it. Chewing his lip, Dick pulled them down. They were too recognisable. If Ra’s’s men came looking …

He wound them up in Nightwing’s saddle blanket, tucked them under his arm, and headed back inside.

By the time he stepped in the door, bacon and eggs were sizzling in a pan over a roaring fire. Harley perched on the kitchen table in a nightdress, brushing her hair, and only grinned when Dick ducked his head, face burning again.

Slade looked revived, sitting up and poking at the bacon with a spatula. ‘—have to get moving soon, if we’re going to catch them.’

‘Catch who?’ Dick kicked his boots off, setting the sword and bow by the door.

Slade lifted his head. His face was still grey, but his single eye was clear and focused. ‘A battalion of Gotham soldiers, marching into Nanda Parbat.’

Dick’s chest tightened. ‘Bruce?’ He shook himself. ‘The … the king?’

‘I don’t know if Wayne is with them.’ Slade leaned back in his chair, tapping the spatula at the edge of the pan over the fire. ‘I planned to take you straight to them.’

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Dick slumped in the chair opposite Slade. _Slade planned._ Before Dick ran out on his own, and Ra’s caught him, and took Slade’s hand off—

‘You’re looking guilty again,’ Slade muttered. ‘Stop it.’

Dick laughed. As if it was that easy. ‘So where’s the battalion now?’

God, if Bruce was with them … a weight lifted off his heart just to imagine seeing Bruce again. To arrive, safe and well. To show Bruce there was no _need_ to bargain with Ra’s al Ghul. No need to risk losing Damian to Nanda Parbat. Damn it, just to have Bruce’s hand on his shoulder again, firm and heavy and warm.

But Slade shook his head. ‘We had to detour to get here. I know where they were, but we’ll have to move fast to catch them now.’

‘Bacon’s burning,’ Harley pointed out, twisting her hair into a braid over her shoulder.

‘_And_—’ Ivy added sharply, stepping in to scoop the pan off the fire and snatch the spatula from Slade’s hand, ‘—you’re not moving _anywhere_ until Harley’s sure that wound isn’t going to fester.’

‘Unless you want to lose it up to the elbow,’ Harley said cheerfully. ‘I’m always happy to chop more off.’

Dick shuddered, but Slade only rolled his eye. He said nothing as Ivy slid their breakfast onto plates and handed it out, but from his scowl, Dick guessed the argument wasn’t over. Dick took his breakfast with a murmur of thanks. The thought of Bruce being so close and yet so unattainable made his stomach tight, and yet he shovelled the bacon and eggs down within seconds. He hadn’t realised how famished he was.

His plate was barely clean when Ivy hissed, dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter.

Dick shot to his feet at the same time as Harley leaped off the table, but somehow Slade was at Ivy’s side first, staring out the window, his bad arm cradled to his chest.

‘Well, that didn’t take long,’ he murmured.

Dick peered over his shoulder, and his breakfast turned to lead in his stomach.

Nanda Parbat soldiers. A whole troop of them, flickering through the woods like shadows. Fresh snow had covered his and Slade’s tracks overnight, but somehow they’d still manage to follow them. Or perhaps they were simply searching everywhere, spreading through the mountains like storm clouds over a darkening sky.

‘In the spare room,’ Ivy said. ‘Quickly. Harley, make the bed behind them.’

Harley nodded, and shoved Dick towards the door at the back of the house.

Slade didn’t move. ‘Our weapons.’

‘I’ve got them.’ Dick ducked out from under Harley’s arm, and snatched up his boots and the bundle of sword, bow and quiver from beside the door. His chest flooded with relief. If he hadn’t gone out to check on Nightwing—if he hadn’t thought to grab their weapons—

Harley bundled him and Slade down a narrow corridor and into a sparse spare bedroom. The bed was unmade; pillows flattened, blankets thrown back. But Harley pressed her foot to the frame and kicked it aside. The legs scraped on the floorboards. She ducked in, wedged her fingers into the gaps between boards, and prised a trapdoor open.

Dick gaped. ‘You have … you have a _hidden room_ in your _house_?’

‘Told you we could hide you.’ Harley grinned. ‘In you get.’

There was no ladder, mostly because there was no need for one. The hidden room was actually nothing more than a crawlspace. Dick dropped in, and had to crouch and shimmy aside to make room for Slade.

With them both wedged in, Harley said, ‘Don’t make a sound,’ and slammed the trapdoor shut. A moment later, the bed screeched back into place over the trapdoor.

Dick sank to his haunches, and then sat down, listening to the hush of fabric and fluffing of pillows as Harley made the bed above them; made it seem like nobody had slept there the previous night. Slade sat beside Dick with a thump. He shifted, and warm, dry lips pressed to Dick’s temple.

‘We’ll be fine,’ he whispered.

Dick nodded. He tugged on his boots. Laid the bundle of weapons over his lap. Tried to keep breathing, despite the tight, sharp feeling of a noose tightening around his neck.

Upstairs, a bang. Ivy crying out, in shock or fury.

Every muscle in Dick’s body tightened as boots tramped into the house.


	13. Close Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up to my own fanfic an entire week late with Starbucks* 'Sup.
> 
> I'm so sorry about taking the last week off (I hate, hate, haaaate skipping updates) but I rather unexpectedly moved house last weekend, and everything's been pretty hectic since! I'm settling in now, safe and happy, and hoping not to be delayed again. :)

Ivy’s voice carried through the house, low and sharp, muffled through the floorboards.

In the crawlspace under the bed, Dick closed his eyes and tried to pick up what she was saying. A male voice rumbled at her, and she replied in rapid Nanda Parbat. Boots thudded on the kitchen floor; something fell with a bang and Ivy snarled. She snapped out something else in Nanda Parbat, and Dick picked up every other word—enough to get the gist of what she was saying.

‘Search all you want. There’s no one here but us.’

Dick swallowed. Did she _have_ to say that?

More voices. Cupboard doors banged in the kitchen. Pots and pans clashed. Chairs scraped on the floorboards. And Dick waited and waited, leaning into Slade, gripping the bundle of weapons in shaking hands.

Boots tramped down the corridor. Thudded into the room next door—Harley and Ivy’s room, Dick guessed. He bowed his head. He was breathing too loud. He tried to hold it, but that only lasted until his lungs burned and he let it all out in a shaking rush, louder than before. Slade shifted, pressing a silent kiss into Dick’s hairline.

Back in the kitchen, one of the soldiers said something about ‘the other woman’. Ivy gave a reply, too soft for Dick to understand even if she’d said it in his own language. His throat tightened. _Harley_. Had they done something to her? Why wasn’t she speaking?

He strained, desperately listening out for Harley’s distinctive nasal voice. He focused. _Come on, Harley, say something._ He’d only just met these women. They’d given him shelter. Kindness. Harley fixed up his leg for him. Saved Slade. If they got hurt now, because of him …

The guest room door banged open.

Dick swallowed back the yelp, but could keep from rocking forwards, tightening into a hard knot of panic. Slade moved with him, close and solid and warm. Dick put a hand on Slade’s knee, tightening his fingers around it. Partly to keep his hand from shaking. Partly to press his soul mark close to the warmth of Slade’s body, to feel that safety and relief. _My soul mate it here. I’m safe. My soul mate is here …_

The boots moved around the room. Dick opened his eyes, sweat trickling down his neck. Thin lines of golden light shone through the cracks between the floorboards, dimmer under the shadow of the bed. Dust motes swirled as the shadow of the soldier’s boots stomped back and forth. He fell still.

Then shoved the bed across the room.

It screeched as it ground against the floorboards, like a siren screaming to run, _run_.

Dick slipped his hand into the bundle of weapons. Curled his fingers around the familiar pommel of his sword. Slade kissed him again, slower, utterly silent. No—not a kiss. Just pressing closer. Seeking Dick’s warmth as much as Dick sought Slade’s.

Dick’s heart drummed, but it was steady now. He could fight. For Slade. To protect his mate.

For Slade, he could run through fire.

The soldier stomped over the crawlspace, throwing shadows down into the dark. He scuffed his feet. Called something out in Nanda Parbat. Ivy replied, apparently from the doorway, cool and irritated.

The soldier grunted.

The bed screeched back into place.

And the boots marched out the room, closing the door behind them.

Dick slumped. His jaw ached. He’d been gritting his teeth. He released them now, working his jaw in circles to relieve the tense muscles. He let his head tilt back and fall softly against the wall. Beside him, Slade let out a long, quiet exhale.

Harley screamed.

It was her, without a doubt, high and sharp and ragged. Dick gripped his sword and lunged upward, but Slade reached his good arm across both their bodies and pinned him down.

Dick hissed. ‘Slade—’

‘They can take care of themselves.’ Slade’s voice was barely a whisper. He curled his hand over Dick’s, around the pommel of the sword, pushing him down. ‘Don’t move.’

‘But—’

From the kitchen came a thud, and a crunch, and another scream—this one distinctly male. And then another thud, and cries of pain, and Ivy snarling words Dick didn’t know but he was pretty sure he understood. And suddenly he remembered the way Harley looked when he first saw her, snarling in the doorway with the spiked war hammer in her fist.

Boots stomped and the soldiers cursed, but their voices grew quieter, and quieter, and their boots crunched on snow, and finally the front door slammed.

Another tense minute passed, and Dick imagined Harley and Ivy watching the soldiers retreat through the window, making sure they disappeared into the woods.

When the guest room door clicked open, he had to bite back a groan of relief.

‘Well,’ Harley grunted through the floorboards, shoving the bed aside, ‘that was exciting.’

Light blazed into Dick’s eyes as she lifted away the hidden trapdoor. He gasped, and finally loosed his grip on his sword as Slade drew his hand away so Harley could pull him up.

Once Slade was out, Dick straightened, and gratefully took Harley’s hand so she could tug him up. He could’ve easily stepped out of the crawlspace, but his legs had turned to jelly.

He squeezed Harley’s hand before letting her go. ‘Did they hurt you? You weren’t saying anything, and then—’

‘Nah.’ Harley snorted. ‘I just kept my trap shut. Apparently my Nanda Parbat is an “offense to the ears”.’ She deepened her voice as she said it, mimicking Ivy’s lower tones.

‘It is,’ Ivy confirmed, stepping into the doorway and leaning a shoulder on the wall. ‘I told them Harley was mute.’

Harley touched her neck absently. ‘The scars help. But then they got handsy.’ She snorted, dropping her hand. ‘They’ll think twice before they try that again.’ She picked her fingernails delicately, barely hiding a smirk.

Dick couldn’t see her hammer nearby, but he had a pretty good idea of where she might have swung it, and his eyes watered. ‘Good … good for you.’

Harley’s smirk widened into a grin. ‘So, where were we? Breakfast?’

She and Ivy headed out the room. Dick took a step to follow them, but Slade caught his wrist.

‘We have to leave.’

Dick looked him up and down. Slade’s face was grey again, his cheekbones too sharp. Dick’s stomach tightened. Slade needed rest. Not just one night curled in an armchair, but days, weeks, months. He needed to heal.

‘They didn’t find us.’ Dick put a hand on Slade’s shoulder. ‘And—’ his chest tightened, but he forced himself to continue, ‘—and we don’t have to catch that Gotham battalion. We can wait. We can head back to Gotham when it’s safe.’ He hesitated. ‘When you’re better.’

Slade blew out a breath. Shook his head. ‘Those soldiers will come back tomorrow.’

‘Then we’ll hide again.’

Dick held Slade’s stare, unwavering. And finally, Slade bowed his head, and released Dick’s wrist.

Dick bit his lip, not sure if he’d actually won that argument, or if Slade was just too exhausted to keep fighting. Or in too much pain.

Whichever way, Slade needed rest. So did Dick.

They headed back to the comfy chairs by the fire, where Ivy pressed cups of tea into their hands, and Dick dozed and ignored the tight, sharp ache in his stomach as he thought about the Gotham battalion marching away and away and away.


	14. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, because I fell off a climbing wall and busted my leg. 🤦 I am not a smart woman.
> 
> On the bright side, it's all smut today! 😁 Enjoy!

‘You smell like a pair of corpses,’ Ivy announced, poking her head in the spare bedroom that night. ‘Wash before you stink up the bed.’

Dick, already collapsed on the bed fully clothed, raised his head and blinked blearily as Ivy set a metal basin on the side. Water sloshed over its lip, frothing with suds. He pushed himself upright. ‘Thanks.’

Her criticism was probably fair. Days of riding, running, bleeding … Dick doubted he smelled like the Gotham gardens right now.

Slade grunted, not looking up from the bow laid across his lap. At his feet, lines of arrows stood upright like rows of soldiers, the points stabbed into the floorboards. The feather fletchings had been lovingly brushed and repositioned and replaced. Before that, he’d spent hours at the fireside painstakingly working on the bow, one-handed: polishing the wooden handle, buffing the curved limbs, waxing the string. Now he perched on the end of the bed, perfecting the notch of the last arrow, testing it on the bow he’d never use again.

_Why?_ Dick chewed the inside of his cheek. _Why torture himself like that?_

Giving the damaged floor a weary look, Ivy added, ‘We’re going to sleep. Try not to destroy any more of my house.’

‘You know I don’t make promises.’ Slade finally glanced up, and although Dick could only see the back of his head, he was pretty sure Slade was smiling. Ivy smiled back, rolling her eyes, and shut the door softly behind her.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Slade set his bow down beside him and stretched his arms overhead. His shoulders cracked like crumbling rocks, and his tunic lifted, showing a scant inch of bare skin at his back.

Heat prickled Dick’s face. He looked away, shaking himself.

_I’ve seen him shirtless before._

At Nanda Parbat Castle, in Slade’s room. And he’d felt the warmth of Slade’s body, as he looped that chain around Slade’s wrists and dragged him into a kiss …

The soul mark warmed on his wrist. Dick covered it with his palm.

But they weren’t in Nanda Parbat anymore. Dick wasn’t a captive anymore. They were free. Free, and safe, for the first time in days, with food in their stomachs and friends in the room next door and a bed to share.

_To share._

Dick ran a hand over the blankets, stomach fluttering.

Across the room, Slade tugged his tunic off, wrestling it over his injured arm. He bent over, and Dick imagined leaning in, tracing his tongue along the bumps of Slade’s spine, tasting his skin.

He sucked a breath. Bit his lip.

Slade reached for the sponge and scrubbed his face and neck and shoulders. Patted warily around the edge of the bandages on his wounded arm. Shaking damp hair out of his face, he finally turned to look at Dick. His mouth twitched in a smirk. ‘Are you going to sit there staring until the water’s cold?’

Heat flooded Dick’s face, but he forced himself not to look away. To smile back. ‘Maybe.’

Slade snorted. ‘Get over here.’

Dick kicked off his boots and tugged his tunic over his head. He reached for the laces of his trousers, and hesitated.

_Slade’s seen me undress before, too._

Or at least, Slade was in the room when Dick undressed before. Dick wasn’t sure if he was _looking. _

And he wasn’t looking now, but twisting his body, struggling to reach some spot on his lower back with just one hand, wet hair plastered down his neck.

Dick twisted his fingers in the laces of his trousers.

Slade grunted, and twisted his arm the other way around his body, trying to reach the same spot. Just to the right of his spine.

And Dick moved without thinking.

He stepped up, gently prised the sponge from Slade’s hand, and pressed it against his lower back for him.

Slade stiffened for just a moment. Then he lifted his chin and exhaled, long and slow and warm as a hearth. The muscles across his back relaxed as Dick moved the sponge in circles, scrubbing away dirt and sweat and dried blood. Ivy was right, he realised, taking a long breath as he leaned in. Slade did stink. He stank of woodsmoke and horse and stale sweat, and warmth flooded Dick’s face as he washed it away.

He worked slowly. Softly. Lower back. Hips. Ribs. Shoulder blades. Dick swallowed, his tongue suddenly too large for his mouth. The hot water glistened on Slade’s skin, tracing down his muscles in tiny streams, beading at the waistband of his trousers before soaking into the wool. Dick reached up. Put his other hand—his _bare_ hand—on Slade’s skin. It burned under his fingers.

Slade turned.

Dick’s throat tightened. He pressed the sponge to Slade’s stomach. Traced it up, pressing harder now, between the hard muscles of his chest. Slade’s shoulder’s lifted and then he gripped Dick’s free arm as if to hold him steady.

And then he pulled him up into a hard, blister-hot kiss.

Dick pressed in close, bare skin flaming against Slade’s. He flicked his tongue over Slade’s lips and Slade nipped him in return, growling low and soft and possessive. Dick’s fingers loosened around the sponge without thought, and he didn’t realise he’d dropped it until it bounced off his foot, and _fuck_ he was burning, boiling, melting, the soul mark on his wrist searing hot.

As if he could feel it himself, Slade brought his hand across their bodies to grip Dick’s marked arm. He drew it up between them. Stared at the mark with eyes only half-open, as if absorbing all the colour, all the detail, all the perfection he’d lost with his own mark. Heat thudded in Dick’s cock and he bit back a groan. He wanted Slade’s soul mark on his. Wanted to feel that connection again, that sharp, binding touch. And he couldn’t—couldn’t ever again—and—

Slade drew Dick’s wrist up to his mouth, and slowly, deliberately, ran his tongue over the soul mark.

Dick’s knees buckled.

He only didn’t scream because the wind burst out of him in one sharp gust, like a punch to the gut. When he managed an inhale, it came with a whimper, high and feeble and needy. His soul mark prickled and burned and _ached_. Slade licked it again, lapping as sweet and slow as if he craved the taste, and this time Dick muffled the scream by pressing his face into Slade’s chest and his own fist into his mouth and groaning, shaking all over.

Slade pressed a kiss to the palm of Dick’s hand. And then swept in to kiss his throat instead.

Relief sweeping through him, Dick rolled his head back. He moaned against his knuckles, leaning up into the wet heat of Slade’s mouth. Slade traced his hand up Dick’s arm, and pressed the pad of his thumb into Dick’s soul mark. Sparks shot across Dick’s skin and he shuddered.

Slade’s hand slipped away, only for a moment, and then Dick felt the warm roughness of the callouses against his shoulder … trailing down his arm … running over his ribs. His skin warmed at Slade’s touch, sending shivers cascading down his spine as Slade traced over Dick’s chest. His thumb flicked over the nub of Dick’s nipple and Dick whined around his fist, jerking his hips forward as heat flooded between his legs.

Teeth closed on Dick’s throat, tight and sharp, and Dick gripped Slade’s arms and rolled his hips again, chasing the friction between their clothes. A hard ridge pressed into Dick’s hip. Dick drew his hand from his mouth, panting.

‘I want you,’ he breathed.

Slade groaned, lifting his head and nipping at Dick’s mouth again. His injured arm twitched, as if he meant to grab Dick in both hands. Or maybe he could feel the warmth of his own missing soul mark.

Slade’s hand slipped over Dick’s stomach. Traced the dusting of hair beneath his belly button. A finger curled into the waistline of Dick’s trousers.

One sharp tug at the laces, and Dick’s trousers pooled at his feet.

Dick’s face burned. He took a deep breath. Another.

He stepped out of his trousers. Stepped into Slade, who gripped his arm and jerked him close, skin-to-skin, licking and kissing and biting his lips. His jaw. His throat. Slade’s tongue dipped into Dick’s clavicle and Dick whimpered, shivering, and Slade bent and descended further. He swirled his tongue over Dick’s nipple and then dropped to his knees and trailed kisses down his stomach and—

Dick slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a cry.

The hot, wet glide of Slade’s tongue along the underside of his cock. Warmth and tightness and pressure, and Slade moaning softly, lapping at the head of Dick’s cock to catch the beads of wetness there before he lowered his head again. The wet smack of lips on skin and fuck, _fuck_ Dick’s stomach was already tight. He reached for the side with a shaking hand. Gripped the wood for support, legs shaking as Slade raked his nails softly down the inside of Dick’s thigh.

Slade moved faster. Sucked harder. Dick bit his tongue and tried to breathe slow, tried not to fall apart, because he still wanted to feel Slade up against him, Slade inside him, Slade pressing him into the sheets—

Slade’s hand crept up between Dick’s legs, fingers closing softly around his balls, tugging and massaging and Dick had to close up his throat and swallow back a scream and because god _damn it_, he _wasn’t coming yet_.

The swirl of Slade’s tongue around the end of his cock. A hot, heavy breath over sensitive skin. Slade’s single grey eye flashing up to meet his.

Dick whimpered. ‘Slade—’

Slade lowered his head again, slow, lips red and open and tongue stretched out over his bottom lip. His hand squeezed at Dick’s balls again, then slipped away, creeping up his body, over his stomach. Dick’s hips twitched and he expected Slade to jerk back but instead he leaned in, his groan cut off as Dick slipped into his throat and everything went red and hazy and soft and Dick’s breath caught.

Slade gripped Dick’s wrist, and pressed his thumb into Dick’s soul mark. Hard.

Dick came with a shout, hips jerking, soul mark scalding, walls melting around him. Slade lapped and swallowed, and then rocked back with a snarl, bringing his hand up to wipe his lips.

‘Fuck.’ Dick fell back against the side, legs weak.

Slade crouched, elbows on his knees, head bowed and the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. His shoulders moved as he breathed.

Dick winced. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

Slade snorted. ‘Stop apologising, idiot.’

His head snapped up. He lowered his hand from his mouth, and behind it he was grinning, a wide, sharp, trickster grin. He glided to his feet. 

Dick let out a breath, sagging. And Slade stepped in, pinned him against the side, and caught him in a hard, open-mouthed kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut continues next week. ;)


	15. First Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I'm back to doing the prompts from SladeRobin Week! Um ... out of order ... whoops ...

Legs trembling, Dick leaned back against the side and arched up into Slade’s kiss.

He whimpered as Slade’s hips pressed in, forcing already-fraught nerves to burn again. Slade lapped into his mouth, leaving behind a taste like seawater and sour fruit. Dick flinched, but Slade’s hand curled in his hair and pulled him closer.

When he finally drew back, Slade grinned, all sharp teeth and single, gleaming eye. ‘You taste as good I imagined.’

Dick let out a deeply embarrassing whine, worsened by Slade rocking their hips together again. Tears pricked his eyes. ‘Ah! Slade!’

Slade’s fingers glided from Dick’s hair along his jaw. ‘Too much, Your Highness?’

Squaring his shoulders, Dick snaked a leg around Slade’s. His own mouth twitched, a smirk fighting its way through. ‘I told you to _stop calling me that._’

He put his hands on Slade’s chest, and shoved.

Slade stumbled, arms swinging, and for an instant guilt yanked at Dick’s chest. Shit, _shit_, what if Slade landed on his bad arm?

But Slade’s legs hit the bed before he could fall, and he hit the mattress with a grunt. Grinning, Dick crossed the space between them, sliding onto Slade’s lap just as Slade’s eye narrowed.

‘Playing rough, Your Highness?’

Dick shook his head. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘You’re too brave for your own good.’

Gripping Dick’s hip, Slade arched his back and pressed his mouth to the soft skin under Dick’s jaw. He rocked his hips up, but from here, at least, Dick could control the angle. Could stop Slade fucking _overwhelming _him. He shifted, pressing the inside of his thigh to the hard lump of Slade’s cock. Slade hissed, bucking his hips at the pressure. Pleasant, warm tingles raced up Dick’s skin. No more screaming nerves. He breathed a sigh, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

Which was a tactical mistake.

Slade gripped Dick’s elbow and tugged, snapping upwards with his right hip. Dick went sprawling, yelping, onto the bed. He landed on his back with a gasp, and before he could blink Slade straddled him, his weight dropping over Dick’s hips.

‘One hand and one eye, and I can still pin you.’ Slade’s teeth flashed in a smirk.

Despite his heart thudding, Dick scoffed. ‘Only because I’m going easy on you.’

‘Oh?’ Slade raised his eyebrows. ‘Just try and get me off, then.’

Dick slipped his hands down; Slade caught one, yanking it back up over Dick’s head. But he automatically reached for Dick’s other hand with his injured arm. Before Slade could react to his mistake, and Dick pressed his palm to Slade’s cock.

Slade grunted, his hand tightening around Dick’s wrist. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I’m getting you off.’ Dick grinned. ‘And don’t roll your eyes, you walked into that one.’

‘Eye,’ Slade corrected in a grunt, but that seemed to about all he could force out. He bowed his head, the muscles in his thighs tightening as Dick smoothed his palm up and down. A sharp tug at the laces and Slade’s trousers fell open, and—

‘_Fuck,_’ Dick breathed again, head thudding back into the pillows.

Slade’s cock was smooth under his fingers, thick and scarlet and obscene, curving gently upwards in a way Dick could just _feel_ would hit the right places. He squirmed, imagining the heat, the tightness, the bursts like flashes of gunpowder.

He shuddered, flush warming his skin, and twisted his arm in Slade’s grip. Slade didn’t let go. Just leaned down, rested on his elbow, and ran his tongue along the soft patch of skin behind Dick’s ear. Dick whimpered, and why, _why_ had he come so fast? His cock twitched and tingled and he groaned and fidgeted, smoothing his hand along the length of Slade’s cock, over and over, tight and loose, tight and loose.

Blood pulsed in Dick’s cock. He groaned. Lifted his head.

Half-hard. Already. Again.

Panting, he fell back against the pillows. Squeezed Slade’s cock a little harder, and shivered as Slade growled and dragged his teeth along Dick’s throat.

‘Want you to fuck me,’ Dick whispered.

Slade let out the softest huff of a laugh. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘_Slade._’ Dick rolled his hips up, catching the edge of his cock on Slade’s leg and biting his lip to keep from screaming. ‘God, fuck, _please_.’

‘With no oil and no—’ Slade snarled as Dick increased the pace with his hand, ‘—no preparation? I’ll hurt you, and you’ll regret it.’

Dick rocked up again, this time catching his cock in his hand and pressing it up against Slade’s, stroking and tugging them together. Sparks shot up through his stomach. Slade made a noise like a bear, low and deep and rumbling all through his chest.

‘Try me.’ Dick lowered his voice to a growl, almost low enough to match Slade’s. And then he ruined it by whining when Slade bit his neck.

But Slade released Dick’s wrist and pushed himself up, lifting his weight off Dick’s body to slide in between Dick’s legs. He slid his hand down the inside of Dick’s thigh, and let out a long, soft breath, just on the edge of a growl, as Dick smoothed his own hands down his own body to stroke his cock. He shivered, burning at the lightest touch.

Slade leaned forward, balancing awkwardly on the elbow of his injured arm, and ground his cock along the length of Dick’s. Dick whined, taking them both in one hand again as Slade hitched up Dick’s knee and hooked Dick’s leg over his shoulder.

Warm, rough fingers petted softly at Dick’s balls. Then lower, tracing his perineum. Dick shivered. His hand stuttered around their cocks, fingers weak and trembling.

Slade pressed a finger against Dick’s ass. Dick moaned, cock hard and aching. He arched his back. His leg throbbed over Slade’s shoulder, injured muscles voicing their complaints as he stretched further, tilting his head back.

And Slade pushed his finger inside.

It burned, hot and dry, and Dick’s breath hitched. But it also filled him, teasing, just short of satisfying, and he writhed, pushing down against Slade’s hand until he reached the knuckle. Slade let out a breath, soft and shaky. Withdrew his finger. Pumped it, slowly, back in.

Dick whined and arched further, pushing up with his one foot on the bed, until he thought his spine would crack. Slade flexed his finger and Dick’s stomach tightened, but he gripped Slade’s arm.

‘No you don’t,’ he ground out, teeth gritted. ‘You’re not going to make me—’ He choked as Slade pushed a second finger in, tight and hot as a brand. Swallowed. Forced tight muscles to relax, despite the sandpaper-burn of stretching open on dry fingers. ‘Said I want you to _fuck me_.’

Slade snorted. ‘Stubborn little shit.’

Dick opened his mouth to give a witty retort, and instead moaned, the tension building in his cock at the hot, tight friction of Slade’s fingers inside him. He tightened his fist around Slade’s cock, letting his own fall, throbbing, against his belly, and pumped hard. Slade bared his teeth and hissed. And dragged his fingers out of Dick.

‘You asked for it,’ he growled.

His cock rubbed Dick’s ass, and Dick whimpered at the warm, wet slick of precome. And then Slade pressed in, and it was hot and sweet and filling and tight and tight and _tight and—_

Dick brought his fist to his mouth and bit down, choking back a scream. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_, Slade was right, this was a horrible idea. It seared and burned and tore and he was screaming around his fist and _shit, fuck shit, shit_, they should’ve used oil. He kicked and jerked and wailed, and then fingers wrapped around his fist and shoved it away and Slade’s palm pressed against his mouth, and through his muffled shouts he heard murmurs of, ‘Shh, I’ve got you, you’re all—’

Slade’s voice choked off and his hips stuttered and he groaned, and the burn in Dick’s ass was suddenly swallowed up in an explosion as Slade struck his sweet spot, once, twice, in sharp jerks, and Dick came so hard the room went dark.

It was a minute before he realised the candle was still burning by the bed, and the darkness was just his eyes rolling back in his skull. Slade moved off him, slow and gentle, and slumped on the mattress.

Dick opened his mouth. Tried to speak. Couldn’t. Reached for Slade’s hand and caught it, and weaved their fingers together and just lay there, gripping him, feeling like he was clinging to tree in a tornado.

His muscles ached and his cock throbbed and his ass burned, and he’d never felt so perfect in his life.

Slade reached over, slung his injured arm over Dick’s body, and made a motion as if to draw him closer. Turning on his side, Dick wriggled in, pressing his back to Slade’s chest.

‘Hurt enough for you?’ Slade murmured.

Dick swallowed. ‘Didn’t hurt at all.’

Slade snorted. Pressed a kiss to the nape of Dick’s neck. ‘You’re a godawful liar, Richard Grayson.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let this be a PSA. Use lube, kids. Also condoms. Although this is a medieval AU so like ... a sheep's bladder? Hm.


	16. Fire

The bed was soft as clouds, and the blankets were warm, and Slade’s arm slung over Dick’s shoulder felt like a shield that could keep out any hurt in the world.

So why was he awake?

Blinking against the pillow, Dick drew a long breath. His fingers tingled, trapped beneath him and going numb, but if he shifted Slade might roll over, might take that arm away, might even wake up himself. And god, Slade needed rest.

So did Dick.

So _why_ was he _awake_?

Closing his eyes, Dick let the breath out and sank, and sank, back towards sleep …

And smelled smoke.

This time he jerked awake, hissing as his body ached in complaint. Beside him, Slade grumbled and turned over, his arm sliding off Dick’s shoulder and away. Dick sat up, peering through the dark. Smoke. He smelled smoke. And it was still dark, still—

Someone shouted outside the cottage. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was low, sharp, distinctly male. Dick pushed himself up.

‘Slade.’

Another mumble. Then a sharp breath. ‘What?’

‘There’s someone …’ Dick slid his legs out from the covers, and as he stood, a sharp orange line cut into his vision. A glow, like the sun itself blazing from under the door. The sun, or—

‘Fire!’

Dick lunged across the room, groping in the dark for the basin on the side. He found it, accidentally dunked a hand in it, then heaved it up and staggered for the door. Both hands occupied, he kicked it open.

Smoke belched into the bedroom. Dick gasped and it seared his throat; his eyes burned and filled with tears.

The basin wasn’t going to be enough.

Fire filled the hallway, flickering up the walls, creeping across the floorboards. Smoke writhed across the ceiling. Dick threw the water out anyway, desperate, panicking.

Slade caught his arm. Dick yelped—he hadn’t even heard Slade get up—and then staggered, dropping the basin as Slade yanked him back.

‘Out the window!’ Slade snapped. ‘Go!’

Dick hesitated only long enough to scoop up their clothes—boots, tunics, trousers—and the wrapped bundle of their weapons. A sharp jab from his elbow and the windowpane shattered; he wadded up their clothes and set them at the bottom of the window frame to pad the broken glass, and then scrambled out into the cold.

The snow burned his bare feet, but Dick waited until Slade clambered out after him, cradling his injured arm to his chest, before snatching up his clothes. Out here, the shouts were louder. Clearer. Not _shouts_ but jeers. Victorious laughing and calling and cackling.

Dick yanked on his trousers. His tunic. His boots. His heart felt small and tight.

Ra’s al Ghul’s soldiers.

Slade was right; they’d come back. But they hadn’t waited until tomorrow, and they hadn’t bothered to search the house.

‘Harley and Ivy,’ Dick gasped, already running even as he dragged his second boot on. Their room was right next door, so it must be—this window—here!

He banged on the window with a flat palm. ‘HARLEY! IVY! GET UP! FIRE!’

Harley’s face came up to the window first, pale and strained. She waved a hand, shooing him away, and Dick drew breath to argue before he saw the hammer in her other fist.

He leaped back just as Slade reached to tug him away. The window crashed apart a moment later. Glass tumbled and lay glittering in the snow. Harley leaped out in a nightgown and bare feet, teeth bared and snarling.

‘Those bastards!’

A bundle of blankets tumbled out the window, followed by Ivy. She hissed at the cold air, snatching one of the blankets up and winding it round her shoulders like a shawl.

‘I kill ’em!’ Harley raged. ‘I’ll crush every one of ’em!’

Dick tightened his grip on the bundle of weapons.

Ivy touched her shoulder. Her breath clouded in the air around her face. ‘You’re damn right we will.’

She whirled, and before Dick could move, she snatched at the bundle in his arms. Dick’s sword slid out its scabbard in a whisper, Ivy’s fingers white around the handle. He yelped. Jerked a step forward. But Ivy was already running, Harley at her side. The blanket fell from her shoulders and tumbled into the snow as they raced away barefoot in their nightgowns like wraiths.

‘Wait!’ Dick called. ‘Harley—Ivy—wait!’

Slade reached across him, taking up his bow. But then he shifted to grip the arrows with his missing hand, and seemed to realise. He couldn’t. He thrust the bow back at Dick with a snarl. ‘How’s your aim?’

Dick swallowed. His heart thumped in his throat. ‘Decent. Good.’

Slade grabbed a knife. ‘Then let’s—’

A scream. High and shrill and sharp and decidedly not Harley or Ivy, or even human. Cold swept under Dick’s skin, seeping into his bones.

‘The barn,’ he gasped. ‘Nightwing!’

He threw Slade’s quiver over his shoulder, hooked the bow around his leg and tugged the string up into place. His arms shook with the effort—god, how strong _was_ Slade, to regularly pull a bow this hard?—but the string slipped into its notch and he straightened. Gripping the handle, he whipped an arrow from the quiver, and ran after Harley and Ivy.

He nocked the first arrow as he ran, sliding his fingers through the feathers as it slipped into place on the taut string. As he skidded round the corner of the house, he lifted the bow.

And immediately loosed the arrow into a man’s throat.

He reached blindly for the next arrow, fingers burning cold.

Even the snow seemed to be on fire.

Flames roared up the front of Harley and Ivy’s cottage, swallowing the thatch roof in a boiling sea of orange and gold. The light turned the snow red beneath their feet, and flames crawled out over the flower patches, shrivelling the petals to crisp black wafers that floated away on the wind.

Ra’s al Ghul’s men filled the space between the forest and the burning cottage.

They blurred together in Dick’s mind: shouting, slashing figures, and there might have been ten or ten thousand and it didn’t matter. He drew the bow again, shoulder aching at the strain, and loosed another arrow into a dark shape looming behind the screaming white ghost that was Harley. She slammed her hammer into a man’s temple, snarling as his skull crunched and he toppled. Nearer the trees, Ivy spun and twisted with Dick’s sword in her hand. It was too heavy for her—she let it drop between slashes. Dick loosed another arrow at a man near her, misjudged and missed. The arrow whipped over his shoulder and he twisted on his toes before lunging at Dick instead.

Dick drew another arrow, but the man was five steps away, three, and there was no time or room to shoot so instead Dick gripped the arrow by the shaft, side-stepped a swing from the man’s blade, and plunged the arrow into his eye. The man fell back screaming, and Dick wrenched the arrow back. The barbs on the back of the arrowhead tore through his flesh and blood sprayed down his cheek. Dick nocked the arrow. No point wasting it. He felt numb.

Behind him, Slade roared. The soul mark burned on Dick’s wrist and he spun, hissing, but before he could even draw the bow Slade slashed his attacker across the throat, the knife glinting in his hand as he flipped it and stabbed down into the man’s chest.

_ The barn. Nightwing._

Dick turned and ran. His arms trembled but he couldn’t feel his hands beyond the sting of cold. His boots crunched in the snow, and how the hell were Harley and Ivy walking barefoot? How were they still alive. How—how—how—

The barn had only begun to burn. Fire spouted from one corner of the roof in an orange pillar; inside, the animals bleated and squawked and screamed. A man stood by the door, torch in hand, bending to light the straw spilling out into the snow.

Dick aimed for his head. Hit him in the throat. The arrow lodged there, sticking out his jaw as the man stumbled back, choking wet and guttural. Blood sprayed over his lips and the torch dropped from his hands as he tumbled, flopping in the snow like a fish.

Dick ran past him, kicking the torch away. He drew the bolt on the barn door. Threw it open.

The first goat hit him like a strike from Harley’s hammer. He reeled back and landed on his ass in the snow, gasping, as the others stampeded out past him. Chickens fluttered out, squalling and clucking, singed feathers floating behind them. And behind them all reared Nightwing.

The horse burst out like the first crack of thunder in a storm, bare-backed, eyes white and rolling. He flashed past Dick, hooves beating through the snow like war drums, and tore screaming towards Slade.

Groaning, Dick pushed himself to his feet. ‘You’re welcome.’

He looked up at the burning barn. The saddle. More importantly, the saddle_bags_. Food and waterskins and blankets and all they needed to survive.

Taking a breath, he hooked Slade’s bow over his arm and plunged into the burning barn.

Smoke seared his eyes and he tensed, fighting not to gasp. _Don’t breathe. Don’t let it burn your lungs._ The few steps across the barn felt like crossing oceans, and hauling Nightwing’s tack down from the rafters was like lifting a mountain. But then it was in his arms, and he was stumbling outside, gulping clean air.

He dumped the tack in the snow. Slipped the bow off his arm again. Nocked another arrow. His arm trembled as he drew. At his feet, the man with the arrow in his throat gurgled and twitched.

Nothing moved.

Dick panted, the shakes moving up into his shoulders now. Black shapes in the snow. Cold. Unmoving. Dick’s vision blurred and refocused, searching. Harley and Ivy, standing like ghosts, watching their home burn. Nightwing, pawing at the ground near the trees, the other animals long since scattered into the woods. The ground trembled under Dick’s feet. And Slade—and Slade—and Slade—

Slade’s hand on his shoulder. Sliding down his arm. Prising the bow out of his hands. It’d gone slack—when had Dick lowered it?—and Slade set it down with Nightwing’s tack, murmuring, ‘They’re gone, Dick, they’re all gone.’

Dick staggered. His shoulder hit Slade’s chest and Slade gripped him with his one good arm; leaned down and pressed his face into Dick’s hair.

He counted the bodies sprawled in the snow. Five. Seven. Eight.

Not even ten. Not even ten, and they’d felt like hundreds. How many had run back into the woods? How many would come back, next time?

‘I’ll have to give you archery lessons.’ Slade’s mouth moved against the top of Dick’s head. ‘You’re a terrible shot.’

Dick shook himself. Straightened. ‘I missed _one_ of them. I am not a terrible shot.’

He turned, stepping out of Slade’s hold. Slade grinned down at him, and Dick guessed the whole idea was to make him indignant, because if Dick was indignant, he wasn’t counting corpses.

Slade clapped his shoulder. ‘We need to get moving.’

Dick swallowed, and nodded. He reached down for Nightwing’s saddle, stomach heavy, chest tight. And it only tightened when he turned and found Harley and Ivy again, cold and still as statues, their nightgowns swirling like snowdrifts in the wind.

In silence, they watched their home burn, and burn, and burn.


	17. Apprentice

Slade got them moving before the fire burned out.

They marched through the quiet darkness of the woods, Harley and Ivy on Nightwing’s back, bundled in the blankets they’d taken from their bedroom and the bedrolls from Nightwing’s saddle.

‘He’s your horse,’ Ivy murmured to Slade as he pushed her up into the saddle. ‘And you’re still hurt.’

‘You want to lose your toes in the snow?’ Slade replied.

Ivy’s bare white feet dangled over Nightwing’s side. She curled her toes, as if that would keep them from blackening and dropping off. ‘No.’

Dick didn’t try to keep track of the time. He kept a hand on Nightwing’s neck and walked, one foot dragging after the other, head bowed as the thumping of his heart slowed and the terror and anger melted away into exhaustion. And if he heard sniffs and shaking breath from the women on Nightwing’s back … well, he wasn’t going to mention it.

‘There’s a town close to here.’ Harley said, as they trudged onto a trail where the snow had been stamped down by dozens of passing hooves and feet. ‘It ain’t safe exactly, not from Ra’s, but they know Ivy and me. We trade with them sometimes.’

Dick looked at Slade. His white hair and beard glowed in the hazy moonlight. The patch over his eye was a bottomless black hole.

‘It’s safer than freezing to death,’ Slade said.

And they marched on.

The moon had faded to a ghost when they reached the village. Dick got impressions of wood cottages and barking dogs, but everything was faded and dreamlike, and Ivy was talking to someone with a moustache and eyebrows like caterpillars, and Slade pushed Dick gently aside to dig in Nightwing’s saddle, and gold flashed in Slade’s fingers as he handed it over and then Dick was helping Harley down from Nightwing’s back and they were indoors and he was falling into a bed that smelled of straw and mildew and it was most comfortable he’d ever been in his life.

* * *

He woke up too many times to count, disturbed by sunlight blazing between the shutters and people chattering and dogs yapping in the street. And most of all, by the fact Slade wasn’t lying next to him. Dick reached across the mattress and found nothing—just the edge of the bed and empty air—and his stomach swooped and he gasped awake, only to remember.

No more soft bed in Harley and Ivy’s cottage in the woods. No more curling up next to Slade, warm and cosy and safe. Just a row of cots in a cheap inn, Slade sleeping in the next bed along, head tilted back on his pillow and breathing deep and heavy. Harley and Ivy had squashed themselves in a cot together, their arms and legs dangling over the sides.

It must’ve been midday when he woke up to Slade sitting on the edge of his bed. Slade’s hand was warm around Dick’s ankle, his thumb stroking over the ridge of bone. He held his injured arm tucked up against his stomach.

‘We have to get moving,’ Slade murmured. ‘Ra’s will find us.’

Dick nodded, sitting up and scrubbing his eyes. ‘We’re going to find that Gotham battalion first.’

Slade’s brow tightened, and he opened his mouth as if to say _don’t get your hopes up_, or _we’ve already missed them_, but then he closed it and nodded. Dick let out a breath, tension in his chest easing.

Because really, what other option was there? Spend weeks crawling off the mountain, pursued through every village, chased out of every inn? Slade’s coin and their provisions wouldn’t last forever. They needed _help_.

‘Come on.’ Slade squeezed Dick’s ankle, then stood up. ‘I need to teach you how to use a bow.’

Dick snorted, rolling his eyes as Slade went to wake up Harley and Ivy. But he swung his legs over the bed, and felt a pang of hope.

Gotham. Friends. _Home._

* * *

Slade was an absolute bastard of a teacher and Dick was going to throw him off the mountain.

‘No,’ he said, for the tenth time, as Dick drew the bowstring. ‘You’re gripping the handle too tight again.’

Dick lowered the bow and scowled up at him. ‘Will you let me shoot a goddamn arrow?’

Up on Nightwing’s back, Harley snorted a laugh. Dressed in new winter clothes and boots, costing almost the last of Slade’s coin, she and Ivy were taking it turns with Slade and Dick to ride Nightwing. The moment Dick’s boots hit the ground, Slade pressed a bow into his hands and got to work, lecturing as they walked.

Slade ignored Harley’s sniggering. ‘Not like that I won’t. You can have an arrow when you’ve proved you won’t shoot yourself in the foot. Draw.’

Dick planted his feet, drew a breath, and lifted the bow as he let it out, drawing the string back, and making very, _very_ certain to hold the handle loosely, letting the tension from the string pull it into the soft crook between thumb and forefinger. Just as Slade had instructed. So. Many. Times.

‘Better?’ he grunted.

‘No.’ Slade jabbed Dick’s outstretched arm. ‘You’re locking your elbow again.’

Groaning, Dick lowered the bow again, throwing his head back in despair. ‘You know, I had an archery teacher in Gotham. A very good one. I can shoot a bow.’

Slade snorted. ‘Is that what he told you? He should be strung up and shot. I’d never let my apprentice hold a bow like that.’

If they ever got back to Gotham, Dick made a mental note to never, ever allow Slade near the palace archery range.

‘For god’s sake, let him shoot something,’ Ivy said. ‘There isn’t another village for miles in this direction and I want to eat today.’

‘The way he’s shooting at the moment, you won’t be eating for a fortnight.’ Slade rolled his eye.

Dick resisted the urge to smack him with the bow, only because his eyes flashed instead to a small brown lump of feathers picking its way through the undergrowth. Pheasant? Grouse? Some kind of bird. Some kind of fat, meaty, delicious bird.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Dick reached into the quiver hanging from Nightwing’s saddle and picked out an arrow.

Slade sighed. ‘Dick …’

Taking a breath, Dick nocked the arrow, drew, and shot.

And nailed the bird between the eyes.

It let out a short, cut-off squawk, and went still. Grinning, Dick slung the bow over his shoulder, trotted into the bushes and snatched dinner up by the scruff of the neck. The arrow was even intact.

He shook the bird at Slade as he came back. Feathers fluttered loose, dancing in the cold air before fluttering to the ground.

‘Yes, well.’ Slade folded his arms, carefully tucking the injured arm under the good one. ‘You still gripped the bow too tight.’ But he was smirking, his single eye glinting with pride.

‘Leave off.’ Harley leaned over from Nightwing’s back to swat at Slade’s shoulder. ‘It was a good shot.’

‘I bet he can’t make it again.’

Harley stuck her tongue. ‘Bet he can.’ She eyed Dick. ‘See, I got faith in you. Also, I got no money, so make the shot or don’t. Slade loses either way.’

She grinned, and Ivy snorted, and it occurred to Dick for the first time that maybe this lesson wasn’t entirely for _his_ benefit. Harley and Ivy were grey-faced, their eyes dark, their shoulders slumping. But they were smiling. And maybe listening to Slade and Dick bicker was better than thinking about whatever smouldering ashes were left of their home.

_I’ll make it up to you._ Dick swallowed. _You lost your home because of me, and you’ll get a new one because of me. The nicest home in Gotham. I swear._

‘Of course I can make the shot again.’ He rolled his shoulders, picking out another arrow. ‘What’s my target?’


	18. Hunger

The first night was the easiest.

Full of roasted fowl, washed down with snowmelt and apples from Slade’s pack, Dick was chattering and laughing with the others as they threw down pine branches for a bed and huddled under the blankets close to the fire. Ivy showed him how to make rabbit traps—something he’d forgotten his father teaching him years ago—and they set them up with expectations of a good breakfast. Dick fell asleep as quick and easy as snuffing out a candle.

But he woke up stiff and aching, the warmth of the fire long since burned out, the tip of his nose stinging cold. Dick blew on his hands to warm them as they all packed up. Ivy emerged from the forest with a single, skinny rabbit. Slade shook his head as she sat down to skin it.

‘There’s no time for that. We need to keep moving.’

Ivy sighed, but slung the rabbit over Nightwing’s saddle without complaint.

They trudged on through the snow, Slade setting a hard pace even as their path turned uphill, winding around the curve of the mountain. Animals scurried away through the undergrowth, too fast and too well-hidden for Dick to get a clear shot at any of them. When his turn came to rest in the saddle, he leaned back against Slade’s chest and dozed. The muscles in his legs twitched, blood thumping in the soles of his feet.

Setting up camp the second night was more subdued. Ivy set up her rabbit traps again, and despite his aching limbs, Dick forced himself to go hunting again. He wasn’t lucky enough to catch any birds this time, and the one rabbit he did catch looked even stringier than Ivy’s from that morning.

They ate, and slept, and marched out again the next morning.

Over and over.

Slade’s pilfered supplies from Nanda Parbat Castle dwindled between the four of them, even with careful rationing. Some days, Dick found an animal to shoot. Most days, he didn’t. Sometimes Ivy caught a rabbit in her traps. On a bad day, she came back with a rat.

They ate that, too.

Because the worst days were when she caught nothing, and Dick shot nothing, and they had to nibble at bread and dried meat like mice. They marched to a chorus of bubbling, growling stomachs.

The day the rations ran out, Dick ate a fistful of snow just to shut his stomach up.

They came to a broad mountain pass, the snow stamped flat and frozen into icy pits and waves. People had marched through here. People with horses, and sleds, and heavy winter boots.

‘How much further?’ Harley didn’t groan. She looked too tired to groan. Her face was white and sunken, cheeks bitten crimson with the cold. She walked along beside Nightwing, leaning on his neck.

‘We were meant to meet them here,’ Slade said. ‘Get on the horse with Dick. I’ll walk.’

‘No you won’t.’ Harley swatted his leg weakly. ‘You look like a corpse.’

He did. They all did. Tired and sunken and starving hungry, forcing themselves step by agonising step across the mountain.

He could have cried with relief when he shot a snow hare that night. But the measly portion of meat only made him hungrier, and he spent the night shivering, watching the moon travel over the sky, never quite falling asleep.

* * *

The sky was grim and close with clouds, darkening what should’ve been midday to a dusky grey, when they first saw the yellow and black banners of Gotham in the distance.

Dick would’ve run, if he could physically force his feet to move any faster. Instead he staggered, gasping, closer and closer, until they could make out family crests on the flags and men in bright helmets with gleaming pikes and swords, and dogs running with sleds, and horses picking their way through the snow with their heads down and their breath steaming around their nostrils.

‘Hey!’ With a force of will, Dick raised a hand and waved it over his head. ‘Heeeey!’

The soldiers at the back of the group hesitated, a few of them turning. And now they were close enough for Dick to make out their puzzled expressions, to hear the mumble of their voices as they spoke to each other.

The pikes went down as the distance between them closed up.

‘No closer!’ one of the soldiers said. ‘Who are you?’

‘Ra’s al Ghul’s elite army,’ Harley snorted. ‘That’s right, he sent all four of us.’

Dick touched her foot, but didn’t look round. He stared up the length of the pikes at the soldiers. Gotham soldiers. His soldiers. ‘I’m Crown Prince Richard Grayson.’

The soldiers looked him up and down. Dick wondered what he looked like—skeletal, pale, filthy. Not much of a prince.

‘Prove it,’ the soldier said at last.

Dick nodded, reaching for his wrist. His soul mark. Virtually everyone knew Prince Richard had a feather on his wrist.

He hesitated.

But he didn’t have a feather. Not anymore. Not _just _a feather.

He swallowed. ‘I’ll show you my sword,’ he said instead. ‘It has the king’s crest on it.’ He moved slowly, reaching for Nightwing’s saddle. The soldiers tightened their grips on their pikes. ‘I won’t unsheathe it.’ Loosing the belt from the saddle, Dick drew the sheathed sword out, and held it out handle-first.

For an aching moment, the soldiers didn’t move. Then one of them—just one—raised his pike, stepped forward, and drew the sword. He studied the handle, scowling. His eyes narrowed.

And the scowl dropped.

He looked up at Dick, mouth hanging open.

Gripping the sword more tightly, he said, ‘I’ll get the commander. Just wait … wait here.’

He turned, and sprinted away across the snow. The other soldiers didn’t lower their pikes, and Dick didn’t ask them to. If he was their commander, he’d be proud. They weren’t risking the safety of the Gotham battalion on four miserable faces and a nice sword.

‘You ain’t getting that back, y’know,’ Harley said.

Dick huffed a laugh. And he waited, holding his sheath to his chest, aching and exhausted and just longing, _longing_ to see Bruce and his brothers. Gotham Castle. Home.

The battalion marched on up ahead, growing more distant by the minute. But a single figure split from the group—a man in bright armour, riding a broad chestnut warhorse. He drew up short behind the row of soldiers with pikes, helmeted head turning to watch Dick and the others as his horse stamped and tossed its head.

‘The hell’s going on here? Which one of you brought Dick’s sword?’

Dick straightened. He knew that voice. Even echoing through a helmet. ‘I did.’

The man on the horse went still. ‘Holy shit. _Dick?_’ He reached up, and pulled the helmet off, setting it down in his lap. Reaching up, he pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. Streaks of premature white spilled between his fingers. He was a strong-jawed and solid-faced as Dick remembered, broad as an ox and damn near as strong.

And right then, with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, he looked just the way he had when Bruce pulled him off the streets. A little seven year old boy, staring up at a palace.

Dick’s legs wobbled. ‘Hello, Jason.’

Jason swung out the saddle and pushed through the line of soldiers.

And Dick didn’t so much step as _fall_ into his open-armed hug.


	19. Brothers

Jason clapped Dick’s back hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

‘You bastard!’ He crushed Dick to his chest, then finally stepped back, holding him at arm’s length. ‘We’ve been betting on whether you were dead. We’re ready to storm to the fort and you—what—slipped out the back door?’ He poked at Dick’s mouth. ‘You’ve still got all your teeth and everything.’

Dick swatted Jason’s hands, although he was laughing, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into another hug. _Jason!_ Jason was commanding the battalion!

‘I had help.’ Dick grinned. ‘These are my friends.’

‘Only perfect fucking Dick Grayson could be captured in enemy territory and _make friends_.’ Jason shook his head. But he waved up at Harley and Ivy—still on Nightwing’s back—pleasantly enough, and greeted them in Nanda Parbat. ‘Welcome.’

‘Hello handsome!’ Harley replied cheerily, her Gotham accent thicker than ever. She folded her arms on Ivy’s shoulders, leaning forward to grin down at him. ‘What’s wrong with enemy territory? That’s where the fun is.’

Jason’s wave faltered. He stared up at Harley as if he might be a little in love. ‘Where do you find these people?’

‘Harley and Ivy,’ Dick said, introducing them in turn. ‘And this is Slade—’ he touched Slade’s arm, and was about to add, ‘my soul mate,’ when Jason snapped,

‘Slade Wilson?’

Dick stilled. ‘Y-yes?’

Metal flashed, and next thing Jason’s sword was pointed under Slade’s chin.

Slade didn’t flinch, but Dick recoiled. ‘Jason—’

‘Get away from him,’ Jason said, slow and level. He stared at Slade with hard, wide eyes, like he hadn’t really _looked_ at him until now. ‘I know you, Slade Wilson. So what’s al Ghul’s plan here? Get inside the camp, find out what’s going, and then sneak back to Nanda Parbat? Or are you going to kill us all in our sleep?’

‘Jason!’ Dick snapped.

Slade didn’t respond. His single eye fixed on Jason, cold and amused.

‘He’s Ra’s al Ghul’s mercenary, Dick,’ Jason said. ‘Whatever he’s told you, it’s a lie.’

Dick rolled his eyes. ‘Where do you think I met him, Jason? Put your sword down.’

‘Dick, I’m _telling you_—’

‘He’s my soul mate.’

Jason didn’t put his sword down. Mostly because he now seemed frozen solid, every muscle in his body tense as a bowstring, eyes flicking between Dick and Slade as if following some invisible thread between them. ‘He’s … _what_?’

‘He’s my soul mate.’ Dick rolled back his sleeve, turning his hand over to show Jason his soul mark. The brilliant blue feathers, struck through with the sharp copper arrow. Dick swiped his thumb over it, to show it wasn’t paint. As if paint could ever create something so vibrant, so clear, so _real_. He shuddered, his skin prickling at the touch. ‘See?’

Jason stood straight. He drew his sword back an inch. But his eyes fixed on Slade. ‘Where’s yours?’

Slade lifted his stump. ‘I lost it.’

The words were dry as parchment. Harley snorted, and Dick might’ve too, if Jason hadn’t narrowed his eyes.

‘Convenient.’

Slade shrugged. ‘Not for me. I was right-handed.’

‘Jason …’ Dick sighed.

‘With the greatest respect, Crown Prince, shut your mouth,’ Jason snapped. ‘I’m responsible for the safety of everyone in this battalion. Ra’s al Ghul’s prize mercenary is a hazard.’

Dick spread his hands. ‘Why would I lie? Why would I tell you he’s my soul mate if he isn’t?’

‘Because he’s threatened you,’ Jason said smoothly. ‘Or blackmailed you, or there are three dozen Nanda Parbat archers hiding in those trees and you don’t want them to shoot.’ But he finally lowered his sword, stepping back. ‘We can solve this.’ He looked at the soldiers, now gripping their pikes and looking unsure where they should be pointing them. ‘Get the brat.’

A moment’s hesitation, and one of the soldiers lifted his pike, turned and raced away.

Dick couldn’t help himself. He sighed. ‘The brat?’

‘Mmhmm.’ Jason’s eyes fixed on Slade, and didn’t flicker.

Dick wasn’t going to say anything. Jason was an adult. A commander. He absolutely did not need his big brother butting in. And neither did _the brat_. Even if it sounded like they were bickering like children again, which Dick thought they’d _stopped doing_ by now. They did not need his help.

Probably.

Dick gave up. He sighed. ‘What’s he done now?’

Slade folded his arms, and Jason’s lip twitched as if he was trying not to grin, but he didn’t look away from Slade. ‘I may have offended him.’

‘I thought you two were getting along,’ Dick said, ‘Ever since you showed him that trick with the gunpowder.’

Up on Nightwing’s back, Harley perked up. ‘Gunpowder?’

‘What can I say?’ Jason said dryly. ‘Without you, Mr Perfect, we all fall apart. Explosive arrows be damned.’

Harley let out a long, low sigh, as if she’d never dreamed of anything as wonderful as explosive arrows. Ivy hissed, either sharing in Harley’s delight or utterly terrified. Dick couldn’t tell. He guessed terrified. Ivy was sensible. Sensible people were usually terrified of Jason’s finer inventions.

Slade choked. ‘Explosive arrows?’

‘They put gunpowder in the fletchings,’ Dick said wearily. ‘Then dip the rest of the arrow in pitch, light it and let loose. Mostly they explode after they land.’

‘Mostly,’ Jason agreed. ‘The trick is to shoot them off fast. Before they blow up in your face.’ He grinned at Slade. ‘Scared, old man?’

‘Furious,’ Slade corrected, ‘that you have both of your hands and I don’t.’ He hesitated. ‘_How_ fast do you have to shoot them?’

Jason’s grin widened, and his eyes flashed.

_ Oh no,_ Dick thought. _They like each other_.

He’d have to barricade the palace archery range when they got back to Gotham.

Another figure broke away from the soldiers up ahead, walking through the snow. He was small and cloaked, like an inkblot against pure white paper. As he drew closer, he lifted his chin. Then pushed his hood back. His eyes fixed on Dick’s

He started to run.

Damian Wayne hit Dick in the chest like a cannonball. Dick staggered, but Damian’s arms clamped around his ribs, clinging to him even as he stumbled. Dick’s knees buckled and they went down, Dick wrapping his arms around Damian’s shoulders and hugging him close.

‘I missed you too, Damian,’ he murmured.

Damian made a noise that might’ve been a sob or a hiccough. But when he lifted his head, his eyes were dry and his face was fuming red. ‘What took you so long?’ He thumped Dick’s chest.

Dick wheezed. ‘Sorry.’

‘This _bastard_—’ Damian jabbed a finger up at Jason, ‘—said you were dead!’

Dick glanced up at Jason, who smirked and shrugged.

‘I told you we were making bets. I took the safe bet. Either you were dead, and I got money, or you were alive. Win-win.’

Dick rolled his eyes. Good to know Jason’s bleak sense of humour hadn’t changed. And that his bickering with Damian wasn’t serious.

Damian shot to his feet. ‘Then you’ll be happy to pay up.’

‘Delighted.’ Jason ruffled Damian’s hair. Damian slapped his hand away. ‘This isn’t just a happy reunion, brat. You know this man?’

Dick staggered back to his feet, stepping closer to Slade.

Frowning, Damian turned and looked past Dick for the first time.

And reached for his sword.

His knees bent, his shoulders hunched, and his mouth drew into a tight little frown. Damian slipped his sword from its scabbard; it whispered against the leather, deadly soft. Before Dick could draw breath, the sword was balanced defensively between Damian and Slade, the point jabbing towards Slade’s chest.

Slade stepped back, arms upraised. Damian’s eyes flashed to his missing hand. He grinned.

‘Wilson. Good to see people keep chopping bits off you. What can I take next? How about your other eye?’

‘Shame you can’t chop off some manners,’ Slade shot back. ‘I see you still don’t have any.’

Damian jabbed forward again. Slade side-stepped neatly, and Dick lunged in before Damian could do any damage. Or, god forbid, before Slade got fed up and drew his own sword.

‘Stop!’ Dick stepped in front of Slade, close enough that his back brushed Slade’s chest. Damian backed up instantly, although he kept his sword ready. ‘Slade isn’t a threat. He’s my soul mate.’

Damian blinked, head snapping back as if Dick had struck him.

His sword lowered an inch.

His eyes flicked between Dick and Slade several times, then up to Harley and Ivy on Nightwing’s back. Harley waved. Damian’s face creased, as if he was trying to mentally calculate the impossibility of a connection between Slade and Dick, and then factor in two unknown women and a horse the size of a bear. Dick could practically hear the quill scratching in his head, throwing down numbers until the nib snapped.

‘Your mate,’ Damian finally said, utterly flat.

‘Yes.’ Dick reached back, touching Slade’s arm. Slade didn’t move. Probably for the best. Dick didn’t want Damian to panic and start swinging again.

Slowly, the creases in Damian’s face smoothed—and then resettled into a disgusted grimace. Damian straightened, and sheathed his sword. ‘Good _god_, Grayson, your taste is appalling.’ He glanced at Slade—or rather, at Slade’s missing hand—and snorted. ‘Your soul mark?’

Slade’s voice was a low, sardonic rumble. ‘Your delightful grandfather removed it for me.’

‘Which—’ Jason said sharply, ‘—is why I don’t trust him an inch.’

Slade gave him a hard look. ‘Next time, I’ll remember to keep my severed hand for you.’

‘You do that.’ Jason returned his look without shrinking. ‘Dick, keep your wrist covered up. Damian, have you seen Slade’s soul mark before? Back when you lived in Nanda Parbat?’

Damian shrugged, turning sideways to look at Jason. Not quite, Dick noted, turning his back on Slade. ‘Not often. He wore gloves.’

‘What a shame.’ Jason shifted his grip on his sword. ‘Remember what it was?’

‘It was in his palm,’ Damian said, tracing his fingers over his own hand. ‘It was … some kind of weapon?’

Dick pressed a hand to his wrist. The soul mark warmed at his touch. _An arrow._ He tried to project the image at Damian. _Come on, Dami, it was an arrow._

‘I think it was a knife?’ Damian said slowly, eyes upturned, mouth twisted as he thought.

Jason lifted his head. His eyes were cold. ‘Oh?’

‘No.’ Damian clicked his fingers. ‘It was an arrow. Definitely. I always thought it was fitting. Slade’s an archer.’ His eyes flicked to Slade’s missing hand again. ‘Or I suppose he _was_.’

Slade stiffened. The words cut into Dick’s chest, too. He winced, tightening his grip on his wrist. The skin flared under the pressure, spreading heat through his skin.

‘It was. Like this.’ Dick pushed his sleeve up, and showed the mark to Damian.

It was even brighter than before, practically glowing from Dick’s touch. Damian’s mouth slackened as he stared at it, drinking in the colours. He half-lifted a hand, as if meaning to reach out and touch, but then snatched it away, flushing. You didn’t just touch someone else’s soul mark.

‘That’s it.’ Damian nodded, his back straight as a pike, his voice just a little hoarse. ‘Bad luck for you, Grayson.’

‘Not as bad as you’d think.’ Dick smiled, then looked at Jason. ‘Proof enough for you?’

Jason sheathed his sword. ‘For now.’ He nodded at his soldiers, and they lifted their pikes. ‘I’ll tell the battalion to set up camp. You can’t leave. You’ll be guarded and escorted in the camp.’ He directed this straight at Slade, who nodded. Jason’s eyes roved across them all. ‘You look like you could do with a hot meal.’

Dick sagged. ‘Jay, you have no idea how good that sounds.’


	20. Camp

Dick sat in a folding chair by the wood-burner in Jason’s tent, his boots kicked off and his feet buried in a fur rug, a bowl of broth steaming in his lap, and wondered if he’d died without noticing and been catapulted straight to Heaven.

‘So how long exactly were you wandering aimlessly through the woods trying to find us?’ Jason looked up from the table, which occupied virtually all the space in his tent. He’d spent the last hour pouring over a map, barking at messengers. Sometimes both at the same time, although it sent him slightly wall-eyed.

‘A few days.’ Dick had already traced their route across Jason’s map in pencil, with help from the others. Although in the case of Slade and Damian, the help was more of a curse, each of them attempting to one-up each other as they detailed the terrain of Nanda Parbat from memory.

‘And it wasn’t aimless. I knew where to find you.’ Across the fire, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Slade grimaced as Harley packed fresh herbs against his stump. The concoction was greenish, slimy, and smelled bitter enough to make Dick’s eyes water. Ivy had dug some of them out of the forest, but mostly they came from the camp medical supplies.

Harley smiled as she bandaged him back up. ‘You’re healing fast.’

‘Glad to hear.’ Slade withdrew his arm as she knotted the bandage and tucked the ends in.

Harley rocked back on her heels, dropping against Ivy’s chest. Ivy caught her with a soft ‘oof’, and looped her arms around Harley’s shoulders.

Jason gave Harley a thin smile. ‘We could do with another physician in the camp.’

Damian, swinging back on his own chair with his boots on the table, added, ‘If you’re any good.’

Harley bristled. ‘I kept these idiots alive, didn’t I?’

‘You get points for Grayson.’ Damian’s eyes roved across the tent and locked on Slade. ‘But you lose them for saving Wilson.’

Slade snorted. ‘I missed you too, you little shit.’

‘Foul old bastard.’

‘Whining child.’

‘Miserable cripple.’

Ivy cut in. ‘I’m sure your dicks are both enormous. You can stop measuring them.’ She looked up at Dick—or rather, at the broth cooling in his lap. ‘Are you going to eat that, or fall in it?’

Dick hadn’t realised his head was nodding. He shook himself and sat upright, lifting the bowl. He had a spoon on the table, but honestly that felt like wasted effort at this point. He downed the entire bowl in a few gulps. Shivers raced across his skin as warmth spread through his body.

‘You need a bed.’ Jason jerked his chin at the exit, currently covered with a flap to keep out the wind, snow, and nosy soldiers. ‘I’ve shuffled some people around. Take the tent to the left of this one. You two—’ he indicated Harley and Ivy, ‘—take the one on the right. They’re both guarded.’

Damian frowned. ‘That’s my tent.’

‘Not tonight, little brother.’ Jason put emphasis on _little_, reaching over to ruffle Damian’s hair. ‘From now on, you get to sleep with me.’

Damian smacked Jason’s hand. ‘Just like every whore in Gotham.’

Jason shrugged. ‘Don’t be bitter, just because they come to me first and you second.’

‘Because you fail to satisfy them.’

Ivy gave Dick a bleak stare. ‘Are they always like this?’

‘Only when Tim isn’t around for them to bully.’ Dick stood with a groan. He ached. His legs ached. His head ached. His bones ached. Fuck, his toenails probably ached. He tugged his boots on. ‘Thanks, Jason. I’m going to lie down.’

Slade got up, touching Dick’s arm as he straightened. Dick gave him a smile.

‘Wilson.’ Jason’s voice sharpened. ‘There are guards outside the tent. Just remember that.’

Slade shot him a dry look. ‘Good to know.’

To Dick’s relief, he didn’t argue, or provoke Jason any further.

They slipped out the tent together, and Dick hissed at the blast of cold. A few feet away, Nightwing stood tethered with Jason and Damian’s horses, all brushed down and gleaming, munching at a bale of hay under their noises. Dick considered wandering over, patting Nightwing’s velvet nose, sneaking him an apple as a reward for carrying them all so safely. God knew the horse deserved it.

But the distance felt impassable, and instead he followed Slade to the small tent set up next to Jason’s. Two soldiers stood out front, pikes in hands. Dick nodded to them and they stepped aside, giving him tired but genuine smiles. Dick tugged back the flaps over the front of the tent and crouched to get in.

No room for a table and chairs in here, much less a wood-burner. Deerskins covered the floor and padded the fabric walls for warmth. A raised cot filled the entire space, heaped with blankets, pillows and furs.

Dick wriggled in first, tossing his boots under the cot. He drew the blankets over himself, buried his face in the pillows, and listened to Slade clambering in after him.

He was asleep before Slade made it into the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, they're all safe and cosy in bed. I wonder what could possibly happen next time ... ? :p


	21. Hush

Dick woke up with a cold nose, a warm back, and filmy dawn light peeking through the gaps in the deerskins on the tent walls. Slade’s good arm was slung over Dick’s waist, and his bad arm was wedged under Dick’s neck. Dick’s breath caught when he noticed the bandages, his stomach tightening, not out of any new shock or pity, but because he didn’t want to move and jostle it. How Slade even got his arm under there in the first place was a mystery.

Carefully, inch by painstaking inch, Dick raised a hand to his mouth and blew on his cupped fingers, letting the warm air blast back against his lips and nose. Little shivers raced down his spine at the warmth against cold skin.

Slade shifted. ‘You know, your brother isn’t very smart.’

Stomach tightening again, Dick went rigid. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You didn’t.’ Slade slid his good arm up and squeezed Dick’s hip, before rubbing over his ribs. ‘I could suffocate you with a pillow in here and the guards wouldn’t hear a damn thing.’

It was a moment before Dick connected the dots between the first thing Slade said and the second, and a moment more before he concluded Slade was not, in fact, about to pick up a pillow. ‘You’re saying the guards are pointless.’

‘If they’re meant to protect you from me, yes.’ Slade pressed his nose into Dick’s hair, his voice soft, his breath warming the nape of Dick’s neck. ‘I could also cut your throat.’

Dick buried his face deeper in the pillow. ‘Jason took your knives away.’

Not strictly true. Slade’s weapons were on Nightwing’s saddle, along with Dick’s sword. But that was stashed away with the tack for Jason and Damian’s horses, so close enough.

Slade grunted.

‘Besides,’ Dick reached for Slade’s hand, weaving their fingers together, ‘maybe Jason put the guards there to protect _you_.’

Slade snorted. ‘If he thinks Damian—’

Dick jabbed an elbow into Slade’s ribs. ‘I meant from _me_, you ass. I’m completely capable of choking you with a pillow.’

‘Suffocating,’ Slade corrected. ‘Unless you’re planning to shove it down my oesophagus.’

‘Maybe I am.’

Slade gave a soft huff of laughter. He wiggled his fingers out of Dick’s and slid his hands over the covers, tracing Dick’s stomach. ‘I could stop you.’

Turning his head, Dick glared over his shoulder. He could barely make out the edge of Slade’s jaw; the unshaved scruff growing around his once neatly-trimmed beard. ‘Oh really?’

‘Yes,’ Slade said. ‘Really.’

And he slipped his hand down Dick’s stomach and into his trousers.

Dick choked, and then groaned as Slade curled warm, dry fingers around his cock and tugged. ‘Slade …’ He let his head thud back on the pillow. ‘The guards …’

Slade’s lips brushed the back of Dick’s neck. ‘You’ll just have to be quiet, won’t you?’

Warmth flooded through Dick’s body, pooling in his cock. He whimpered, cut it off, and then nodded, eyes already shut tight. Slade’s hand moved, hot and unhurried, and Dick tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed, muscles in his thighs and stomach tightening in response to Slade’s touch. He let out a shaky breath, with the barest edge of a whine.

‘Shhh.’ Slade’s nose brushed into the hair at the back of Dick’s neck. ‘Cover your mouth.’

Swallowing hard, Dick lifted his hand and pressed his palm to his lips. Which muffled his next moan, as Slade spread his fingers, reached lower, and squeezed Dick’s balls.

‘That’s better.’ Slade leaned up, nipping at Dick’s earlobe, his voice low and soft. ‘Wouldn’t want those guards to burst in, would we?’

Dick took his hand off his mouth long enough to breathe, ‘Bastard.’

Slade squeezed again, and then moved back to stroking Dick’s cock—now achingly hard and weeping. He swiped his thumb over the tip, catching the drop of wetness there and spreading it. ‘Want me to stop?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think so.’

Dick sank into the blankets, letting his eyes flutter half-open so he could watch the hazy light rippling through the tent fabric. It blurred through his lashes, tent and deerskins and pillow washing together in a warm, soft fog as his body grew warmer and tighter.

He sighed as Slade ground his hips forward, pressing hardness against his ass. Then he arched his back, pushing into Slade’s body. Slade drew his hand away, just long enough to loosen the laces on Dick’s trousers and shove them down. Dick lifted his hips, ready to get up, to shed everything, but Slade was already pushing him back down. Slade worked his hand between Dick’s thighs, drawing one leg up, making enough space to slide his cock between Dick’s legs. Then he let go, and Dick pressed his legs together, sighing through his nose as Slade closed his fingers around Dick’s cock. Slade rocked his hips, his cock brushing into Dick’s balls, and shivers raced down Dick’s spine.

He wanted to wriggle. To arch his back and push harder against Slade. He wanted to melt into the blankets, soft and pliant. His soul mark prickled, and Dick imagined Slade running his tongue over it. Biting down on that hot, sensitive skin. He set his jaw. Clamped his lips together. Drew his hand away from his mouth.

And ran his fingers, slow, hard and deliberate, over the blazing colours of the soul mark. Soft blue feather. Sharp copper arrow.

He shuddered and spasmed, and he was about to come apart, and then—

Dick ground his teeth, locking up his throat as sparks danced behind his closed eyes and heat washed over his body in sharp, searing waves. He pressed his palm into his lips, but couldn’t stop the choked, broken groan that forced up through his throat. He jerked and thrashed—and melted.

The pillows were soft and the blankets were warm, and Slade was hot and still moving behind him, the slick glide of his cock between Dick’s legs pleasant and tingling, sending soft shivers of aftershocks over his skin. He dropped his hand from his mouth and closed his eyes, and he’d never felt so lazy and comfortable and filthy. And eventually Slade shuddered, nipping at Dick’s throat as wetness spread over Dick’s thighs. Dick hummed and arched his back like a cat, stretching his spine until the vertebrae popped.

He sank back down. Huddled against Slade’s chest.

‘So that’s how you deal with not having oil,’ he murmured.

Slade laughed, soft and gruff. ‘That’s how sane people deal with it, yes.’ He kissed the back of Dick’s neck. ‘I’d actually rather not hurt you, if I can help it.’

Dick blinked slowly, watching colours move against the back of his eyelids. He shifted, slowly becoming conscious of the tackiness between his legs. ‘You ruined my trousers. And the sheets.’

‘You helped with the sheets.’ Another kiss, this one briefer. Slade sat up, and Dick immediately missed the warmth against his back. ‘I’m sure your idiot brother has plenty of spare clothes. Can’t have Prince Charming running around in Nanda Parbat rags.’

‘You ask him.’ Dick pressed his face into the pillow. ‘I’m too comfortable to get up.’

Slade snorted. But he shifted forwards, opened the tent, and murmured to the guards. He spoke slower when he was talking to other people—taking the time to cover his accent, as much as it could be covered. Dick shifted his feet.

_But I like your accent,_ he thought, or said, or dreamed.

He must’ve fallen asleep again, because he woke up when Slade shook his shoulder. He pushed himself up with a sniff, rubbed his eyes, and accepted the bowl of lukewarm water from Slade, and the hard yellow soap, and the scratchy washcloth. All from Nightwing’s saddlebags, he was pretty sure. But the tunic and leggings were new, and so was the surcoat—in Gotham’s signature black and yellow.

Dick dressed, moving carefully in the cramped space, trying not to kick Slade as he tugged on his boots. Then he splashed the remaining water—cool by now—over his face and through his hair. He took a breath, and looked down at the black and yellow. At the bats sewn onto the material. The Wayne family sigil. It felt like coming home.

Dick looked up at Slade and smiled. Slade’s returning smile was strained. Dick supposed that, for all Slade’s jibing, he was actually seeing Crown Prince Dick Grayson for the first time.

Jason’s voice rang from outside the tent. ‘All right, you mercenary bastard, put my brother down and let him out the damn tent. He must be dressed by now.’

The tension slipped off Slade’s face in an instant. He grinned, sharp and wicked, and Dick laughed, letting his head fall on Slade’s shoulder.

‘We’re coming, you ass,’ he called.

Outside, Jason sniggered. ‘Hurry up! The king will be here any minute.’

Dick’s heart jolted. _Bruce._

He lunged out the tent, staggering to his feet, leaving Slade chuckling behind him.

Outside, Jason stood a few paces away, tapping a rolled-up parchment against his arm. 

‘Bruce is coming? Here?’

As Dick stepped closer, Jason reached out and swatted Dick on the forehead with the parchment. ‘Of course he is. I sent word to Bruce as soon as you found us.’ Jason grinned. ‘And he’s bringing the entire Gotham army with him.’


	22. Strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK real talk, it is past midnight right now and I did nooot give myself time to edit this, so if ya'll see any mistakes feel free to let me know so I can fix it later. You're all awesome. Thank you. <3

Dick couldn’t have missed Bruce’s arrival if he tried.

The horses surged up the mountain, thousands of them, blotting out the white of the snow. Behind them marched more foot soldiers than Dick could begin to count, black and yellow banners flying.

And at the front, crown gleaming on his head, rode King Bruce Wayne.

He came up into the camp, Queen Selina at his right and Tim at his left, a few guards at his back, while the rest of the army set up their own camp alongside Jason’s battalion. Soldiers stopped, dropping to their knees as Bruce galloped closer, leaping to their feet to cheer and wave after he passed.

Bruce drew to a halt outside Jason’s tent, where Dick, Jason and Damian lined up to meet up. Slade hung back, a few paces behind Dick, like a lurking shadow. Dick couldn’t blame him. After Jason’s reaction, he doubted Slade was looking forward to meeting Dick’s adoptive father.

But Dick couldn’t stop grinning.

As Bruce swung out the saddle, his expression cold, his eyes narrowed and searching. His gaze roved over each of his sons. His shoulders lowered. The creases around his eyes smoothed. His gaze landed on Dick.

He let out a breath.

‘You’re safe.’

Dick catapulted forward, slamming into Bruce the way he used to as a child. Bruce’s arms locked around his body, solid as a suit of armour. Dick was eight years old again, waking from a nightmare to find Bruce at his bedside, gripping his hand.

Bruce clapped his back, and finally released him. 

Selina stepped forward in his place, looking as comfortable in chainmail as she ever had in a ballgown, her footsteps light and soft. She swept in to kiss Dick’s cheek, then set a hand on Dick’s shoulder, holding him at arm’s length. Her gaze flicked over Dick’s face. Dick wondered what she was seeing. Bruised eyes? Sunken cheeks?

‘Are you hurt?’

Dick shook his head. As Selina narrowed her eyes, he clarified, ‘Nothing too bad. I had a couple of scrapes.’

Bruce touched her arm. ‘We should be grateful he’s even alive.’

She squeezed Dick’s shoulder. ‘And we are.’ Shaking her head, Selina let her hand slide off Dick’s shoulder. ‘So grateful.’

Bruce’s gaze flicked up over Dick’s shoulder. ‘And we have you to thank for that?’

Dick turned.

Behind him, Slade swallowed and folded his arms. He had to prop them awkwardly high to avoid putting pressure on his injured arm. ‘Yes. You do.’

Dick tried not to groan. Oh yes, this was going to come to blows. He touched Bruce’s arm. ‘Bruce, this is my soul mate. Slade.’

He expected Bruce to stagger back; to snarl; to demand proof. To go through the rigmarole all over again. Dick’s stomach churned.

Instead, Bruce tightened his jaw. He glanced sideways at Selina, and then turned back to Slade. ‘You had better deserve him.’

Slade’s lip twitched. ‘I do my best to.’

Bruce eyed him for half a second more, and then he and Selina turned to Jason and Damian, greeting them with smiles and hugs as warm as they’d given Dick. As if Slade had utterly ceased to exist. Dick watched Bruce’s back, frowning, trying to work out what he’d missed. Had Slade just … gotten Bruce’s _approval_?

_ How?_

Something crashed into Dick’s waist, and he forgot Bruce and Slade completely as another familiar pair of arms clamped around him.

‘Dick!’

He laughed, ruffling the dark head of hair now buried in his shoulder. ‘Hello, Tim.’

Tim tightened his grip around Dick and lifted him off the ground, although he groaned and staggered with the effort. He finally dropped Dick with a huff, and punched his arm. ‘We were so damn _worried_ about you!’

‘Ah, no need for that.’ Dick nudged him. ‘I never get in trouble I can’t get out of.’

Behind him, Slade snorted.

Tim leaned round Dick to take Slade in. His eyes widened. ‘_Fuck_. So you’re the traitorous, untrustworthy defector Ra’s wrote us about?’

Slade seemed oddly pleased with this description. ‘That would be me.’

‘Ra’s wrote to you?’ Dick frowned. ‘About Slade?’

‘Mmhmm.’ Tim swallowed. ‘Bruce will run you through the details later—’ He glanced over at Bruce, who seemed to be elbow-deep in some kind of tactical discussion with Jason and Damian, ‘—but Ra’s demanded we hand you over.’

Slade snorted. ‘Ra’s has nothing to bargain with anymore. Dick’s free.’

Bruce turned. ‘He has an army poised on Gotham’s borders, and ready to take the capital within days.’

Cold shot through Dick’s bones. _No._ After all this, they couldn’t lose Gotham to Ra’s. They couldn’t lose their home.

Bruce glanced around the camp, then gestured for Jason’s tent. They ducked inside, letting the flap dropped closed behind them. Jason waited until last, waving a squire over to take care of the horses, and directing Bruce’s guards to their new posts.

‘We’re not far from Nanda Parbat,’ Jason said the instant he stepped inside. ‘We can still attack—’

‘Ra’s is ready for a siege,’ Bruce said. ‘Nanda Parbat will be stocked with supplies to last months, and we don’t have that long. He could have already sent the order to attack, for all we know. If we want to save Gotham, we have to turn back immediately.’

‘And lose all this ground?’ Jason groaned. ‘We’ll back to step one.’

Damian dropped into a chair at the table, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘My grandfather might halt his plan to attack if you send Slade to him. As a show of good faith.’

Slade raised an eyebrow. ‘I could take you with me, brat. Ra’s is very keen to see his spoilt little grandbastard again.’

Damian gave him the finger.

Dick closed his hand over Damian’s and pushed it down. ‘We’re not sending _either_ of you to Ra’s. Are we, Bruce?’

Bruce hesitated. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Selina nudged him, and finally, he said, ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘That would only put Ra’s in a position of power over us again.’

‘You said we’re close to Nanda Parbat,’ Slade said. ‘How many day’s march?’

Jason shrugged. ‘Four days. Two, if we just take the horsemen and leave the foot soldiers.’

‘We’d need every man to siege Nanda Parbat,’ Damian said.

‘We’d also need every man to fight the army in Gotham.’ Tim folded his arms, and ignored the sharp look from Damian. ‘And like Bruce said, we can’t siege Nanda Parbat. We have to go back.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Slade leaned back on the table, resting his good hand on the edge for balance, cradling his injured arm in his lap. ‘Ra’s was prepared for a siege. He wasn’t prepared for my betrayal.’

Damian gave him a withering look. ‘Meaning?’

But Bruce straightened. ‘You have information.’

Dick’s heart lurched. ‘Slade?’

‘I know that castle inside and out. I know its weaknesses.’ Pushing off the table, Slade reached for one of Jason’s maps. He flipped it over, smoothed the parchment out, and grabbed a pencil. He drew out a few rough shapes, ignoring Jason’s indignant squawk. The front gates are fortified and the walls go deep, except for here.’ He circled a section of the castle wall in the east. ‘This is the old servant’s entrance. It was bricked up decades ago, but the tunnels still exist.’

‘You think we could undermine it?’ Jason’s eyes gleamed.

‘That would take too long,’ Tim said.

‘Only a week,’ Jason said. ‘Maybe two. That’s nothing, not for a siege.’

‘Gotham won’t last two weeks!’

Slade waved a hand. ‘We’re not going to undermine it. We’ll distract Ra’s at the front gate, and a few men can sneak in through the old passage. Dress them as Nanda Parbat soldiers. They can get inside, open the gates, and then wreak havoc while we attack.’ He looked up. ‘We can take Nanda Parbat in a day, with half as many men.’

He looked up, straight at Dick. For a moment, Dick could only stare, mouth hanging open. Then, slowly, a smile spread over his face.

‘We could send the foot soldiers straight back to Gotham,’ Dick said. ‘Some of the horsemen, too. We’ll catch them up on our way back home.’

Damian scowled. ‘I never saw this passage.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Slade snorted, rolling his eyes. ‘It was a servant’s passage. You never left your ivory tower except to sneer from the balcony.’

Damian went scarlet, but before he could draw breath to retort, Bruce said,

‘We’ll do it.’

Damian spluttered. ‘Father—!’

‘It’s a good strategy,’ Bruce said. ‘I value your input, too, Damian, but you haven’t been in Nanda Parbat for years. Slade has recent knowledge.’

‘But he’s—!’

‘Our ally,’ Bruce said firmly. ‘And that’s final.’

Damian sighed heavily. ‘In that case, I volunteer to be in the team that sneaks through the passage. I speak Nanda Parbat better than any of you. I can get us through the castle.’

‘I’m with you,’ Selina said. ‘I prefer a quiet entrance to a frontal assault.’

Dick didn’t miss the way Slade’s eyes flashed from Bruce to Selina and back, as if he expected Bruce to object. Bruce didn’t. Dick grinned. Slade hadn’t seen Selina fight before.

‘That makes the three of us,’ Slade nodded.

‘No,’ Bruce said. ‘You’ll be at the front gate with me, Slade.’

Slade went still. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m the only one who knows the passage.’

‘Damian knows the castle well enough,’ Bruce said. ‘You can direct him. I need you to keep Ra’s’s attention fixed on us. After all,’ he smiled grimly, ‘he wants you back, remember?’

Dick touched Slade’s arm. ‘I’ll go with Damian and Selina. I’ve been in the castle recently, too. I know my way around it.’

Slade’s eyes widened. ‘Absolutely not—’

‘Excellent idea,’ Bruce cut in. ‘Now, my men have marched hard to get here for this morning. They need rest. I expect you do as well. We’ll march out tomorrow.’

He slapped his palm on the table, turned on his heel, and strode out. Slade started after him, but stopped when Dick caught his arm. His glare could’ve melted iron, but Dick breathed a sigh.

It hadn’t come to blows.

Yet.


	23. Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone for your patience with this chapter. I know it's been a long time coming. Life has been utterly insane and I'm slowly clambering back on track. I really appreciate all the kind messages I've had. You guys are the absolute best. I promise I'm going to keep writing, even if I'm a little slower than usual. <3

Maps. So many goddamn maps.

Dick huddled by the brazier in Bruce’s tent as Slade defaced map after map of Nanda Parbat, of the mountains, of Ra’s al Ghul’s castle. Selina stood at Slade’s shoulder, making quiet suggestions, tracing her fingers over the dry parchment. Damian stood across the table, making loud suggestions, smearing the wet ink with his fingertips seconds after Slade drew out a plan of attack.

‘Damian,’ Dick sighed at the end of the day, as they stepped out the darkness of the tent into the bright orange of the sunset reflecting off snow, ‘will you please stop taunting Slade into slitting your throat?’

Damian put a hand on his heart in mock surprise. ‘Surely your soul mate would _never_ attack your precious brother?’

‘No.’ Dick scooped an arm around Damian’s neck and scrubbed his knuckles over Damian’s scalp. ‘But I will.’

Squawking and yelping, Damian twisted free. He jabbed a sharp punch at Dick’s arm, but otherwise didn’t retaliate.

‘You’re lucky you’re my favourite brother,’ Damian grumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Dick rubbed his dead arm, grinning. ‘I know.’

* * *

They were saddling up the next morning when Tim sidled up between Dick and Slade, dragging his horse behind him.

‘Dick said you’re a great archer.’

Dick’s stomach tightened. He looked over his new mare’s saddle, just in time to see Slade’s jaw twitch.

‘I used to be.’ Slade didn’t look up. Just finished tightening his saddlebags, and swung up onto Nightwing’s back.

Tim, apparently failing to get the hint, clambered up on his own horse. ‘Which arm did you use to draw the bow?’

‘Tim …’ Dick touched Tim’s knee, but Tim only waved at him, still watching Slade.

Slade gave him a bland stare. ‘Does it matter? I needed both.’

Tim shrugged. ‘Humour me.’

For a moment, Slade didn’t answer, and Dick wondered if—after Slade had kept his temper so evenly with Damian all the previous day—he’d now have to step in to stop him murdering Tim instead.

‘My right hand.’

Dick’s shoulders sagged as he sighed. When this war was over, he’d really have to work on teaching his brothers to not piss off Slade at every opportunity.

Tim nodded, lips turning into a small frown. He lifted his arms, mimicking holding a bow in his left hand and drawing with his right. Then he lowered them, nodding. ‘All right.’ He tugged his horse’s reins, and turned away with a wave. ‘See you on the road!’

Watching him ride away, Slade scowled. But he didn’t seem as angry as Dick expected. Only confused.

‘Making friends?’ Dick said.

Slade shook his head. ‘Your family are killing me.’

* * *

The ride was hard, and harder because Dick still ached from days of hunger and cold. At sunset they finally stopped to make camp, and Dick dismounted with a groan. His soul mark throbbed, and phantom pains lanced up his opposite arm. A few feet away, Slade dropped to the ground. He cradled his stump to his chest.

Dick staggered to Slade and touched his shoulder. ‘It’s hurting, isn’t it?’

Slade grunted. His face was grey.

‘Find Harley,’ Dick ran his hand up and down Slade’s back. ‘I’ll take care of Nightwing.’

Another grunt; Slade brushed a kiss over Dick’s temple, and turned away to search for Harley and Ivy among the riders.

Dick found him an hour later, once the horses were brushed down, watered and fed. Slade sat by the freshly-built campfire, his face cold as Harley peeled the bandages away. Sympathetic pain resonated from Dick’s soul mark, like ripples spreading in water. 

‘—healing fine,’ she was saying as she stooped to pluck a cloth out of the boiled water at her feet. Hot prickles shot up Dick’s arm as she wiped away yesterday’s crumbling poultice, and Slade’s jaw flexed.

Dick set a hand on Slade’s shoulder, and Slade sagged. Dick crouched, leaning against Slade’s side. A fresh layer of poultice, delivered by a yawning Ivy, must’ve eased the pain, because Slade finally relaxed his jaw, and Dick’s soul mark cooled.

They headed to Bruce’s tent to eat, and then collapsed in their tent, too exhausted for more than a brief kiss before huddling together under the blankets to sleep.

* * *

Dick was dragging his boots on, aching all over and still blinking sleep from his eyes, when Tim’s shadow fell over the tent.

‘Slade, I have something for you.’

Slade, sitting beside Dick, put his face in his hand.

Dick nudged him. ‘If you kill him, I’ll never forgive you.’

‘How about if I maim him?’ But Slade crawled out the tent, pushing his hair back out of his face. ‘What is it, your highness?’

‘I made you this.’

Tim’s shadow moved over the tent, apparently holding something out for Slade.

A moment later, Slade said, ‘A … leather sock?’

‘It’s for your arm.’ Tim’s eye roll was practically audible. ‘So you can shoot a bow again.’

Dick finished lacing his boots and clambered outside, blinking in the sun. He came up beside Slade, who held a mangled, misshapen lump of leather out in front of him as if it might bite.

‘You made me a hand?’ Slade turned the lump of leather over. Something metal glinted. ‘Your anatomy could use some work. Hands normally have fingers.’

Dick laughed. He reached over and took the leather from Slade, flipping it to the right shape. ‘It’s a hook, you miserable bastard.’ As he laid it flat, the shape became obvious: a leather sleeve with a rounded end for Slade’s stump; laces to tighten it around his forearm; and a silvery barb, the size and shape of a crooked finger. ‘Nice work, Tim.’

‘Thanks,’ Tim grinned. ‘We only have scraps so the sleeve’s an old waterskin I traded for, and I melted down one of Damian’s belt buckles for the hook. He won’t miss it. Probably.’ He gave Slade a small smirk. ‘I could’ve used mine but I thought you’d rather I destroyed something of Damian’s.’

Slade took the hook back from Dick, and slid it over his stump. ‘You weren’t wrong.’

Dick sighed. ‘You three …’

But he tightened the laces for Slade, and helped him twist the hook into the right position. Slade twisted his arm, watching the hook glint in the dawn sunlight. Then he lifted it, raising his arms as if to draw an invisible bow, mimicking Tim’s gesture from the day before.

Dick kissed the corner of Slade’s jaw. His beard prickled Dick’s lips. ‘I’ll get your bow.’

* * *

Dick rested his chin in his hands, wincing as another arrow slipped too far left, grazed the tree Slade had been aiming for, and disappeared into the woods. Splinters of bark showered to the forest floor, and Slade growled, lowering his bow, and tipping his head back with frustration.

‘Did the laces come loose again?’ Tim, sat beside Dick on a fallen tree, jumped up and reached for Slade’s arm.

‘No.’ Slade drew back a step. ‘Any tighter and what’s left of my arm will drop off.’

‘More stuffing?’ Tim had already shredded the inside of his own pillow to provide wool padding around Slade’s stump, easing the pressure around his wound.

‘It’s the damn hook,’ Slade said, looping his bow over his shoulder. ‘I can’t flex it like fingers. It twangs the string when I loose and pushes the arrow off target.’

Dick sat up. ‘Why don’t you file the curve down? It won’t twang if there’s no lip.’ He crooked his finger, demonstrating first a full one hundred and eighty degree curve, and then softening it closer to a ninety degree angle.

Tim examined the hook critically. ‘I could. But you’ll be more likely to accidentally loose when drawing.’

With a nod, Slade loosened the laces and wiggled the hook off his arm. ‘Do it.’

Beaming, Tim took the hook and raced away through the trees.

‘We’d better head back,’ Dick said. ‘The camp’s probably broken up by now. We’ll be moving soon.’

‘Mm.’ Slade headed to the tree he’d been using as a target, tugged out the few arrows that’d met their mark, and then stooped to salvage the ones that missed. ‘Your brother is clever.’

‘I know,’ Dick said, with more than a touch of pride. ‘He loves a challenge.’

‘That makes sense.’ Slade scooped up the last arrow he could see and straightened, following Dick back to the camp.

‘It does?’

Slade ducked under a branch, weighed heavy with snow. ‘He saw my arm. He knew I was an archer. He couldn’t resist solving the problem.’

Dick gave him a long sideways look. ‘Or ...’ he drew the word out, slow and mockingly contemplative, ‘he wanted you to be happy.’

Slade snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Dick laced his fingers through Slade’s, leaning in close. ‘You’re my soul mate. They know that. And sooner or later, you’re just going to have to get used to my family being nice to you.’

Slade only grunted in reply, and Dick couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flicked to Damian across the camp, expression cool and doubtful.

Their horses were already saddled. Dick thanked the squire who led them over, and gritted his teeth as he forced himself back up into the saddle. His thighs seared in protest.

‘Looking forward to another’s day’s ride?’ Jason called, his horse skittering and snorting beneath him.

Dick groaned. Although Slade was quiet behind him, his soul mark ached in sympathy as Slade got back in the saddle.

‘Don’t worry.’ Jason rode up close enough to punch Dick’s arm. ‘When we get there, we’ve got a horrible, violent siege to look forward to.’

He cackled as Dick’s face fell, and kicked his horse into a gallop. A moment later, his laughter was drowned out by the thunderous roar of hoofbeats as the army rode out.


	24. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't possibly write the last, epic battle without just a bit more smut. Right? :)
> 
> Thank you everyone for continuing to be patient with me as I post a bit slower than normal. You're the loveliest people in the world. <3

Nanda Parbat Castle clung to the side of the mountain like an insect clinging to a cave wall, dark and grey and glittering with snow in the moonlight.

Dick took a shaky breath, staring up at the walls as he warmed his hands over the fire. Their camp was distant enough to avoid arrow volleys, or anything else Ra’s decided to hurl over the walls, but still close enough to feel the burn of Ra’s’s eyes on his back whenever he turned away.

Orange light flickered in the distant windows. Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek. Which one was Ra’s behind … ?

Slade touched Dick’s arm. ‘Come to bed.’

Dick shook himself. Slade’s hand slid down his arm to Dick’s wrist, and he pressed his fingertips softly into the soul mark under Dick’s sleeve. A shiver raced down Dick’s spine. Nodding, he got to his feet and followed Slade to their tent.

As Slade ducked into the tent, Dick looked up at the castle one more time. His stomach tightened. His mouth tasted of sand. This time tomorrow, it would be over. One way or another.

‘That castle isn’t going anywhere.’ Slade reached through the tent flap and tugged Dick inside. ‘Get in here.’

Dick stumbled into the tent, landing heavily on their cot with a huff. Giving Slade a gentle push, he bent over to unlace his boots. His legs throbbed, muscles twitching from days of hard riding. Bruce’s army may as well have ridden over him.

Slade’s hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed. Then his beard brushed Dick’s throat, and his lips pressed into the soft skin at the corner of Dick’s jaw. Shifting up the cot, Slade curled his legs either side of Dick’s waist, pulling him back to lean into Slade’s chest. Slade reached around Dick’s body, one-handed, and opened the fastenings of his jerkin. Dick pulled it off over his head, and then his tunic, tossing them down on the end of the bed. Then he leaned back into Slade, curling into the warmth of his body.

‘You haven’t said a damn thing since we set up camp,’ Slade breathed against his ear. ‘Usually I can’t shut you up.’

Dick snorted. ‘I’m nervous for some reason. I can’t imagine why.’

‘Could it be the upcoming battle where you stupidly volunteered to infiltrate the castle you barely escaped from a few weeks ago?’

Dick’s heart leaped into his throat. ‘Could be.’ He leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘God, I’m never going to sleep tonight. I should go back outside. Keep watch.’

‘Mm, no.’ Slade slid his hand down Dick’s body and squeezed his leg. ‘Stay here. I’ll take your mind off it instead.’

He hooked one leg around Dick’s waist, barred an arm across his chest, leaned back and twisted. Dick yelped, hands flailing as he tumbled, before landing face-down on the cot, face buried in pillows, with Slade straddling his back.

‘You could have just asked me to lie down, you bastard,’ Dick muttered, voice muffled.

‘I prefer to make you scream.’ Slade leaned down, and traced his tongue along the back of Dick’s neck.

Dick shuddered. With no brazier in the tent, the air was bitter cold, and goose-bumps prickled his skin. Slade pressed his palm between Dick’s shoulder blades, and pushed down. Dick’s spine crackled as he exhaled; he groaned. Slade moved his hand and pressed again, lower. Then lower. One-by-one, it seemed he popped each vertebra back into position. Then he moved onto the muscles, kneading his knuckles into Dick’s shoulders. Dick gasped and writhed as his aching muscles screamed in protest—then finally sagged under Slade’s punishment. Heat flushed over his skin. He felt tight and limp and hot, his hands trembling at his sides.

‘Of course,’ Slade murmured, digging his elbow into a patch of muscle over Dick’s ribs that burned in protest, ‘this is easier with two hands.’ He lifted his elbow, and attacked the muscles on Dick’s other side; Dick whined into the pillows, legs jerking. ‘And oil.’

The muscle popped under Slade’s elbow. Dick yelped, jerked, and then slumped groaning into the pillow.

‘Like … some other things?’ Dick panted.

Slade snorted. ‘Like fucking, yes.’ He shifted down Dick’s legs, settling his weight just over Dick’s knees. He pressed the heel of his hand into the aching muscle of Dick’s ass. Dick hissed, hands tightening into fists, and Slade cackled. ‘Sore?’

‘Ye—argh!’ Dick buried his face in the pillows as Slade ground his hand into the aching muscle.

Slade curled his fingers, not so much massaging as groping, tracing his thumb along the curve where Dick’s ass met the top of his thigh. Dick let out a shaky breath, heat flushing his skin.

‘How about here?’ Slade pushed his hand up the back of Dick’s thigh, grinding into twitching muscles.

Dick shuddered in answer. Blood pulsed in his cock, pinned under his leg. His trousers bunched under Slade’s hands, and the material tightened around his cock. Dick closed his eyes, whining softly. But Slade kept working at his thighs and ass, first with his fingers, then with his fist, and finally digging in with his elbow. Dick bit down on the pillow as his taut muscles screamed in protest, fire burning through his legs. But with each minute the stiff pain of the last few days eased away, until finally it felt like Slade was massaging jelly.

When Slade finally curled his fingers—and hook—in the waistband of Dick’s trousers, Dick sobbed in relief. He lifted his hips, letting Slade peel the trousers off. Before he could lower his hips, Slade reached forward and curled his warm, dry palm around Dick’s cock. Dick groaned, sliding his knees up to balance his weight, keeping his shoulders buried in the pillows.

‘All that moaning and groaning,’ Slade murmured. ‘I know you were enjoying yourself.’

He squeezed; Dick shuddered, groaning again. He felt the brush of Slade’s beard against his thigh, and then the nip of his teeth. Dick flinched. Slade tugged at his cock, his grip loose and easy. A warm, dark haze spread through Dick’s brain. Slade’s beard brushed higher.

And then the wet, hot press of Slade’s tongue glided over his ass.

Dick choked, every massage-softened muscle in his body tensing at once. Slade lapped at him in long, slow strokes, as if savouring something delicious on Dick’s skin. Dick’s legs trembled and he whimpered into the pillow as Slade’s hand sped up around his cock.

Slade’s other arm slid up Dick’s back. The cold, sharp point of his hook pressed between Dick’s shoulder blades—

And dragged down.

Dick came with a shout, sharp and trembling. His vision blurred, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his face pressed into the pillows or the pure, mind-numbing shock. He sagged, but Slade gripped his hips and lifted him back up to fuck between his ass cheeks, hot and fast and slick with precome and saliva. Dick whimpered and twitched, arching up into the warmth of Slade’s body. He felt soft and heavy. Floating. Exhausted.

A quiet grunt and Slade came in hot, wet ropes over Dick’s back. He tugged the filthy top blanket off the bed before letting Dick sink into the clean blankets underneath, wadding it up and scrubbing it over Dick’s back before tossing it to the floor. They wouldn’t miss it. There were plenty more blankets, and they had each other to keep warm.

Dick wriggled under those blankets now, his eyes suddenly heavy. He listened to the shift of fabric as Slade clambered in beside him, and then curled up close against Slade’s chest. ‘I don’t think that’s what Tim had in mind when he made you that hook,’ Dick murmured.

‘Mm.’ Slade took Dick’s hand, turned it over, and traced his tongue over Dick’s soul mark. ‘We just won’t tell him.’

Dick shivered and whimpered, and then breathed, _‘Slade,’_ as Slade did it again. Sparks burned over his soul mark. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know it was glowing, the colours pulsing at Slade’s touch.

A last, soft kiss, and Slade released his hand. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Mm.’ Dick buried his face in Slade’s chest. He stank of sweat and sex. God, Dick couldn’t wait to get him back home to Gotham. To get him in a hot bath frothing with perfumed soaps and littered with rose petals. He chuckled at the thought. Slade and rose petals.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Slade said.

But Dick was asleep before he could answer.


	25. Parlay

Dick tugged the black cloak closer around his shoulders, bowed his head, and trudged on through the snowy woods.

A few paces ahead, Damian glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Just to be clear, when it turns out this secret passage doesn’t exist, would you rather I took your soul mate’s other eye, or his other hand?’

Dick reached out to cuff him. Damian dodged, leaped nimbly over a tree root, and completely failed to notice Selina swiping at him from the other side. She caught the back of his head with a sharp slap. Damian yelped, side-stepped belatedly, and scowled up at her.

‘Careful, Damian.’ Selina grinned. ‘You haven’t met your soul mate yet. You don’t want to tempt fate.’

Damian snorted. ‘I’ve already met Drake. _He’s_ not my soul mate, and I fail to see how anyone else could be worse.’

Selina raised an eyebrow, and gave Dick a thin smile. He returned it weakly. His stomach felt like water, and his soul mark itched. He hadn’t been more than a few feet away from Slade for days.

_And now he’s facing Ra’s al Ghusl at the front gate._

Dick’s stomach lurched. He gritted his teeth and marched faster.

The snow, at least, wasn’t so deep in the woods. It crunched underfoot; the only sound beside their breath. Damian, the most familiar with the area, stormed ahead, turning at landmarks only he could see. Dick tried to imagine a younger Damian running through these woods in the summer, memorizing every tree and boulder before they glittered with snow.

Damian stopped abruptly. ‘According to your traitor, the passage should be here.’

Dick rubbed the bridge of his nose; behind him, Selina ploughed into the deeper snow between the trees, prowling like a cougar. ‘Damian, you _also_ defected to Gotham.’

‘The passage isn’t here. Slade betrayed _us_.’

‘Damian …’

‘It’s here!’

Dick looked up over Damian’s shoulder. Damian whirled, following Dick’s gaze to Selina, who poked her head out from behind the broad trunk of a snow-laden pine.

‘The passage.’ She pointed to the roots beneath her feet. ‘It’s right here. It’s a little snowed-in but it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to clear.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘So, if you’d like to stop bickering …’

Dick shrugged, giving Damian a grin. ‘I can bicker and dig.’

* * *

The gate looked bigger from the outside.

Slade heaved a sigh, hunching in his cloak. Bruce’s army lingered behind him; a sea of yellow tabards and gleaming armour. Bruce rode at their head, flanked by his sons.

At least, the sons not currently sneaking into deadly enemy territory.

A spark of phantom pain shot through Slade’s missing hand. He automatically tried to close his fist around a soul mark that no longer existed, and winced as his flexing muscles tugged the wound at his wrist.

Bruce held up his fist, drawing the riders to a halt. The horses stamped and snorted. The foot soldiers murmured, their chainmail rattling.

Bruce looked across at Tim on his left, then Jason on his right, and Slade beyond him. ‘Time to parlay.’

Snorted, Slade kicking Nightwing forward, following Bruce toward the castle. He fingered the bow strung over his shoulder. He’d hit the target almost every time, practicing this morning. Almost. If Ra’s stepped close …

No such luck. Ra’s was high on the parapet when they approached, behind a wall of black shields. Even if Slade shot true, Ra’s would duck to safety long before the arrow reached him. A waste of good arrows.

‘King Ra’s al Ghul!’ Bruce called, as soon as they were close enough to be heard. ‘This needn’t end in bloodshed. Surrender now, withdraw your armies from Gotham, and we will leave you in peace.’

Slade rolled his eye.

‘Bruce Wayne.’ Even calling over the parapets, Ra’s somehow managed a drawl. ‘I don’t see my grandson with you.’

Jason snorted. ‘Damian never wants to see your ugly face again.’

Bruce shot him a withering look. Jason shrugged. This sentiment, at least, Slade could agree with. It was about the level of diplomacy he could be bothered with.

‘Yet you’ve brought a traitor to my door,’ Ra’s continued, as if uninterrupted. ‘Slade Wilson. Like a cockroach, you just refuse to die even after I’ve crushed you. Where’s your soul mate? Frozen to death in the woods?’

Slade gritted his teeth, and kept staring right up at Ra’s, unblinking. He wasn’t stupid enough to glance into the woods. To give any indication. Let Ra’s read whatever he wanted in Slade’s glare.

Ra’s lifted his chin. ‘Dear, dear. What a waste. Well, never mind.’ He glanced over his shoulder, waving at someone Slade couldn’t see. ‘We can give you something to remember him by.’

The walls of shields in front of Ra’s parted, just a few inches, and one of the soldiers flung something down. It landed, grey and heavy, in the snow.

Slade’s stomach dropped. Had they caught Dick and the others in the passageway? Taken him prisoner?

Slade finally tore his gaze away from Ra’s, and looked instead at Bruce, who shook his head and gave a small shrug. Swallowing, Slade swung out of Nightwing’s saddle. The snow crunched under his boots. He waded through it, closer to the castle wall, to the dent in the snow where the thing had dropped.

Ra’s wouldn’t kill Dick, even if he caught him. It wouldn’t be tactical. Better to use him as leverage. Besides, that missing soul mark was still prickling, reminding Slade of the distance between him and his soul mate. It wouldn’t do that if Dick was dead. Probably.

Ra’s wouldn’t kill Dick.

He wouldn’t.

Slade stooped, then recoiled at a stench like rotting meat. Wrinkling his nose, he reached down a second time, and lifted the object out of the snow. He turned it over, and his stomach somersaulted, bile choking his throat.

He swallowed it down.

And laughed.

Trudging back through the snow, he walked past Nightwing and straight to Jason, who stared down at him with a knitted brow and narrowed eyes.

‘You wanted proof I was Dick’s soul mate.’ Slade lifted it up and dropped it in Jason’s lap. ‘Here.’

His hand.

His rotting, severed hand.

The flesh was grey and mouldering, stained with purplish dried blood. The frigid fingers curled inwards like the legs of a dead spider. And in the middle of the palm, bright and clear as ever, was his soul mark. The feather and arrow.

Jason _shrieked_, flinging it back down in the snow. ‘Damn it, Slade!’

‘That’s enough.’ Bruce’s eyes snapped from Slade to Jason and back, hard as flint. Then he turned back to Ra’s. ‘If you’re not willing to negotiate, we will siege your castle.’

‘By all means.’ Ra’s waved a hand, and even from this distance, Slade could see his smirk. ‘Please continue, Sir Bruce.’

‘_King_ Bruce!’ Tim hissed, and Jason grunted in agreement.

But Bruce only turned his horse and headed back to the army. Sighing, Slade clambered back on Nightwing.

The siege had begun.


	26. Seige

The passageway was dark and frigid, and Dick’s hands burned from digging through the snow. He rubbed them together, blowing on his fingers, trying not to shiver.

‘We should’ve brought a torch,’ Damian whispered, as the light from the entrance faded to a cool spot in the distance.

‘I can still see,’ Selina replied. ‘Just put your hand on my shoulder.’

Damian grunted, and reached out to touch the wall instead, tracing the frozen stone as a guide. As they walked, Dick blinked in the darkness, and Damian and Selina went from silhouettes to shadows to nothing at all. He reached for the walls as well, groping to find his way forward, shuffling his feet to keep from tripping.

As darkness swallowed them, sounds filled the tunnel. Distant, echoing voices. Clattering metal. The thunderous rumble of footsteps.

‘They’ve started the siege,’ Selina said.

Dick swallowed. _Slade’s out there._ His soul mark burned.

Something banged a few steps ahead, then metal rattled on wood.

Selina hissed a curse. ‘I’ve found the end of the passage.’

A nervous smile tweaked Dick’s mouth. ‘I don’t think it counts as finding if you walk right into it.’

Damian swatted his arm. ‘No more speaking Gotham,’ he snapped, in perfect Nanda Parbat.

‘Sorry,’ Dick replied, in extremely imperfect Nanda Parbat.

Damian swatted him again. ‘For you, no more speaking _at all_. Selina, open the door.’

‘It’s locked,’ Selina said, and although her own Nanda Parbat was softly accented, it was a thousand times better than Dick’s. ‘Give me a moment.’

Dick rested his hand on his sword. Soft, metallic clicking filled the tunnel. Then, finally, there was a thunk. The door opened, letting in a sliver of yellow light. Dick winced, blinking hard, and Selina pocketed the long, hooked lockpick.

‘You know how to pick locks?’ he mouthed.

Selina just grinned. ‘Hoods up.’

She tugged her black hood up over her head. Dick followed suit, and then slipped out the passageway with her and Damian. The uniforms were old, taken from prisoners of war months ago when Ra’s first attacked Gotham, and Dick’s was too short in the arms and legs. It rode up over his wrists and ankles, whereas Damian had folded his sleeves back several times to free his hands. But as long as they were fast, and as long everyone else was distracted with the siege, the clothes would do.

The passageway opened into a servant’s corridor in the bowels of the castle. The smell of bubbling curries and warm bread hit Dick with a blast of warm air from the kitchens. Damian staggered as he stepped out the passageway, his eyes glazing. A pang shot through Dick’s heart. To Damian, did it feel like he’d just come home?

‘Which way?’ Selina said.

Damian shook himself. ‘Follow me.’

And they took off running.

* * *

The siege was going beautifully, considering they intended to lose.

Slade rode up and down the lines of soldiers, ferrying orders from Bruce and his sons to attack here; build more ladders; retreat now. He wasn’t, apparently, trust _quite_ enough to give orders free rein, but Bruce did at least take his advice. Soldiers moved in each carrying two shields on their shoulders so it looked as though a larger group was attacking, then retreated when their shoddy ladders were inevitably destroyed before they could climb them to the battlements. Troops rotated, facing the rain of arrows from Nanda Parbat Castle for less than an hour each before retreating into the woods to rest while the next group moved in; saving their energy for the moment those gates opened. Just outside the tree line, in full view of the castle, Tim directed a group to tear down a pine tree and construct a battering ram. It wouldn’t be battering anything. But it would certainly help to wedge the gate open.

Once Bruce’s soldiers started pouring in, Ra’s wouldn’t be able to shut them out.

Something glinted on the battlements. Slade grimaced as the Nanda Parbat soldiers tipped the bucket of boiling water down on Bruce’s men below. Screams echoed up the hills. Shields dropped. A fresh volley of arrows rained down.

The men staggered over each other to escape, abandoning the ladder they hadn’t even managed to raise. Even from a distance, Slade could make out the scarlet blisters on their faces.

Let Ra’s get confident. Let Ra’s think he’d already won. _Then_ they could beat him.

But let it happen soon.

‘Come on, Dick,’ Slade murmured.

Behind him, the next battalion marched in to attack.

* * *

The cold air stung Dick’s mouth and nose as he gasped for breath.

His heart hammered as they raced through the castle, unnoticed amidst the swarm of other black-uniformed soldiers carrying messages and rushing back to their posts. Servants flitted between the soldiers, their faces taut and anxious. They had nowhere to go if Gotham broke through.

But no one seemed to believe Gotham _would_ break through.

Dick’s throat tightened as they charged past a group of soldiers laughing together as they prepared arrows, sliding fletchings into place with crinkled smiles, as though they’d never need to shoot them. He didn’t have to speak Nanda Parbat well to gather Bruce’s siege was going badly.

_It’s supposed to go badly._ He swerved around a corner after Damian, his skin crawling as he recognised the route out onto the battlements. _That’s the whole idea._

He braced as they ran out into the snow, but the cold air still took the breath of out him.

The battlements were packed; no longer just guards patrolling but a full battalion standing ready. There was a sound of rushing water, and then screams rang up the walls. Dick clenched his fists. Who was down there?

_Not Slade. Not Slade._

No—he’d have felt it if Slade was hurt. The thought spurred him on, a second wind taking Dick round the battlements, shoving through black uniforms after Damian and Selina. And up ahead—there was the gatehouse.

The guards at the door were thick-set, their hands curled around glinting pikes. Damian stopped before them, snapping something breathlessly in Nanda Parbat. Dick slowed behind him, hanging back. If he stepped close, they might ask him something, and when he couldn’t answer …

The guards responded to Damian with a shake of their heads. He said something else, gesticulating furiously. Selina strode up behind Damian and added something in agreement.

A moment passed. And finally, one of the guards reached back for the door—

Only to stop.

He bent, peering under Damian’s hood. Damian turned his face away sharply, too late.

The guard straightened, gripping his pike, and hissed, ‘Damian al Ghul!’

Damian hesitated. ‘Shit.’

And slammed a kick into the guard’s chest.

The guard crumpled, and Selina side-stepped a jab from the second guard’s pike, giving Dick room to sweep in with his sword, slash the guard’s chest, and slam the pommel into the guard’s temple. He folded into the snow.

Behind Dick, shouts erupted along the battlements.

‘Does this mean I’m allowed to speak now?’ he gasped.

Damian rolled his eyes, wrenched open the door to the gatehouse, and dragged Dick inside. Selina darted in after them, and Dick whirled and slammed the door just as the soldiers behind them slammed into it. Dick gripped the handle as it rattled, and with a groan Selina lifted the bar and slammed it into the place.

When Dick stepped back, the door shook. The bar trembled, but held fast.

He turned away, although the back of his neck prickled as another soldier shoved at the door, and another, and another. The room was bare and barren, except for the wheel in the centre, the spokes sticking up through the floor.

Dick took a breath, and reached to open the gate.


	27. Finale

The gate rose with a screech.

A sharp, hot pain sliced through Slade’s missing arm.

_Dick._

The shouts and screams and clashes of the siege echoed into nothing. The only sound was the groan of the gate as it rose from the ground, inch by inch, creeping into the castle wall.

Slade gripped his sword, let out a bellow, and charged.

Nightwing soared beneath him, swallowing the ground between them and that open gate as if it were only a breath away. The soldiers on the battlements shrieked, and everything came back in a crash like a wave hitting the beach. Arrows rained down, and Nightwing seemed to float between them. Then, like the rest of the ocean rushing to meet that first wave, Gotham’s army roared and charged. Other horses reared up at Slade’s side, and feet pounded at his back, and the gate was rising and rising, and he was close and closer—

And he was through.

Nightwing leaped over the heads of Nanda Parbat’s black-clad soldiers. His hooves thudded in the snowy courtyard, and Slade turned in the saddle and slashed down with his sword. The soldiers looked up at him in shock, seeing the eyepatch and the white beard and barely registering the betrayal before he cut them down.

_Dick. Where is Dick?_

Phantom pain lanced through Slade’s missing hand again, burning where his palm used to be. As more soldiers approached, he slashed and jabbed, Nightwing bucking and kicking, snorting and screaming and tossing his head. Gotham soldiers poured through the gate, parting around Slade and driving the Nanda Parbat soldiers back. Allies swarming around him, Slade looked up, searching.

_The gatehouse._

Nanda Parbat soldiers blocked the door, hammering at the wood with fists and swords and shields. Slade’s gaze flicked to the stone staircase leading up to the battlements.

Looping the reins around his hook, he tugged Nightwing in the right direction.

* * *

_Bang._

The door trembled.

_Bang. Bang. Bang! BANG!_

Dick gripped the spokes of the wheel, his knuckles white, hands trembling. The gate wouldn’t fall if he let go. It was locked in place. Outside, shouts and screams and clashing swords rang through the cold air. Gotham’s army was inside the castle. They’d done it.

So why couldn’t he let go?

Another bang on the door. The soldiers outside shouted, their words lost on Dick.

Damian shifted, passing his sword from hand-to-hand. ‘We can’t just sit here and wait for them to break in.’

‘If you know another way out, do tell us,’ Selina said mildly.

Unlike Damian, Selina was utterly still. If not for her breathing and the darting of her eyes, she’d have been a statue.

Damian hissed, ‘We’re _missing _the _battle_.’

Dick searched the room again, pointlessly. No windows. No other doors. The wheel turned through a gap in the floor, but it was barely large enough to wedge in a couple of fingers.

_No way out._

‘We’ll just have to hope the door holds.’ Dick’s throat was utterly dry.

Damian scowled. ‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘We’ll surrender, and hope they’re taking hostages.’ The idea of being held hostage again tightened Dick’s stomach, but he kept his voice steady. Better a prisoner in Nanda Parbat Castle again than dead here in this gatehouse.

‘After we infiltrated their stronghold and opened the gate?’ Damian made a strained sound that might’ve been laughter. ‘They’ll cut us down where we stand.’

‘We’ll push you in front and hope they won’t kill Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson.’

Damian snorted. ‘That’s a lot of hope.’

Dick swallowed. His hands were still tight on the spokes of the wheel. ‘What can I say? I’m a hopeful person.’

The door began to splinter.

* * *

Slade snarled, tearing through soldiers on the battlement. They staggered back from Nightwing’s bulk, shrieking and cursing at the horse charging along the rampart. But then they rallied, jabbing and swiping at Nightwing’s vulnerable legs even as Nightwing kicked and reared, and Slade slashed down with his sword. Nightwing danced back and surged forward, fighting to take ground.

The gatehouse was so close. Almost close enough for Slade to dash those soldiers down and drag Dick out; to haul him up on Nightwing’s back and ride away, away from this damn battle in this damn castle with these damn bastards trying to kill them both.

A solider caught Nightwing’s flank with the edge of his spear. Nightwing screamed and kicked. The soldier toppled over the parapet.

An arrow rushed past Slade’s ear. Hot, sharp pain sliced through his skin.

He brought his arm up to wipe away the blood, and kept fighting.

* * *

The banging on the door stopped.

The shouting quieted down and blood roared in Dick’s ears. The battle down in the courtyard sounded so much louder, so much closer, without the crashing at the door. He glanced at Selina, at Damian. Selina’s face was grey. Damian took his sword up in one hand and bent his knees, ready to lunge.

_ Sword._ Dick couldn’t peel his fingers off the wheel. _I need my sword._

A long, sharp shape thrust through the gap between the door and the wall. Dick frowned. A … fire poker?

‘No!’ Damian lunged, grabbing for the poker an instant before Dick realised—and an instant too late to stop it.

It wasn’t a poker. It was a lever.

It rocked up, and the bar on the door lifted with a heavy, wooden groan.

The door burst open.

Dick’s hands sprang off the wheel. Anything remotely resembling _thought_ dissipated into mist. He was just a sword. A sword with an arm attached. Soldiers poured in and he swung and parried and shoved, but the gatehouse was too small to move and there were too many men, and before he could breathe he was pressed against the wall, his sword wrested from his grip.

‘We surrender!’ Selina was saying, her voice low and hoarse but steady. ‘I’m the Queen of Gotham; these are my sons. We surrender.’

Damian didn’t sound like he surrendered. He writhed on the floor under four men, spitting and cursing in both Nanda Parbat and Gotham. But the soldiers, at least, hesitated. They may not have recognised Selina, but they knew Damian. They barked at each other in Nanda Parbat, their voices cautious. A few of them peered at Dick, recognition flashing in their eyes. They’d seen him. They’d seen him _recently_, trailing behind Slade with a collar around his neck.

One of the soldiers nearest Dick leered, bringing a knife up to his throat. He said something Dick didn’t understand and Dick lifted his chin, gritting his teeth, pressing himself back against the wall.

‘Don’t!’ Selina snapped. ‘He’s my son, he’s the Crown Prince of Gotham. If you hurt the prince—’

‘But he’s not your son, is he?’

A chill shot up Dick’s spine. He knew that voice. He tensed, muscles flexing under the hands that pinned him. In the doorway, soldiers parted, lifting their shields to create a barrier between the raging battle and their king.

Ra’s al Ghul stepped into the gatehouse as though he were gliding into a feast in his honour. His eyes fixed on Selina, who stared back at him, unblinking. Ra’s gave her a thin, sardonic smile. ‘None of them are truly your sons, are they? You stole them from the streets, or from better families than your own. A weak, barren queen for a weak, barren country.’

Selina hissed, flashing her teeth like an animal. But if she had a response, she was cut off by Damian, who bellowed a stream of incomprehensible curses in Nanda Parbat, twisting and kicking at the men pinning him down.

‘Be still, Damian.’ Ra’s didn’t even glance down. ‘An al Ghul shouldn’t writhe on the floor like a worm.’

‘Fuck you!’ Damian spat.

Ra’s’s lip twitched in disdain. ‘Gotham’s influence has been worse than I expected. We’ll soon rectify that.’

His eyes flicked across the room, and finally met Dick’s. His lips thinned, and he stepped over Damian and swept towards Dick like a snake.

‘Your _mate_—’ he drew the word out as though it disgusted him, ‘—gave me the impression you were dead. I’m disappointed But I suppose I should’ve known better than to believe a traitor.’

He reached out and tugged Dick’s sleeve up, baring the bright soul mark on Dick’s wrist. Ra’s stared, as if absorbing every strand of the feather; every golden gleam of the arrow. Dick shuddered, skin crawling, feeling as exposed as if Ra’s had torn his clothing away.

Ra’s let out a heavy breath. ‘A feather. Such a gentle symbol for such a thorn in my side.’

Gripping Dick’s wrist, he pressed his thumb into the soul mark.

Dick shrieked, too surprised to stifle it. Hot, white pain shot up his arm, thudding in his shoulder, as if Ra’s had stabbed a brand into his skin. Ra’s didn’t loosen his grip and Dick gasped and trembled, grinding his teeth, swallowing down another scream.

‘Slade was a loyal servant before you,’ Ra’s murmured. ‘First my grandson, then my mercenary. You Gotham filth just cannot resist taking what isn’t yours.’ He didn’t sound angry. Only resigned, as if this was all small and petty and he couldn’t really be bothered to deal with it. He twisted his hand, his thumbnail cutting into the soft skin of Dick’s wrist.

Dick yelped and jerked. He yanked at his arm in the soldiers’ grip, and couldn’t get loose, and every movement sent another spasm of pain shooting through his soul mark. The sword at his throat nicked his skin and he shivered, drawing his head back, twisting his chin away.

Ra’s leaned closer, and for the first time Dick saw a spark of interest in those cold green eyes. ‘Do you think he can feel it?’ Ra’s whispered. ‘Do you think he can still feel your pain in the soul mark I cut away from him?’

He scraped his nail down Dick’s skin and Dick screamed again, tossing his head and writhing against the guards holding him. It _burned_. It felt like Ra’s was stripping the skin from his flesh. Like if Dick looked down, he’d see nothing left of his arm but mangled meat. Noises blurred together, an unintelligible cacophony, and it was a moment before he recognised Damian yelling in Nanda Parbat; Selina screaming, ‘Stop, _stop!_’

‘I could keep you hostage,’ Ra’s mused, as though exchanging pleasantries. ‘But historically that hasn’t worked in my favour.’ He motioned at the soldier holding the sword to Dick’s throat. ‘I think you would serve me better as—’

There was a whisper of air, and a thud.

Ra’s lifted his hand off Dick’s soul mark.

Dick slumped, stomach rolling, sweat dripping cold and sticky down his face. He was going to pass out. He was going to be sick.

And Ra’s …

Blood streamed down his face. It glistened, wet and hot and sickening, bubbling from the arrowhead sticking out of his eye.

Without a sound, King Ra’s al Ghul of Nanda Parbat crumpled to the floor.

Behind him, the back-clad soldiers turned, searching for the source of the arrow—an arrow that had somehow, miraculously, swept past every one of them to land clean in the back of Ra’s’s head.

Their eyes landed on a hunched figure, hair hanging wild over his eyepatch, sitting astride a beastly black horse.

Warmth spread through Dick’s chest.

_ Slade._

Swinging down from Nightwing’s back, Slade took another arrow and drew the string with his hook. He panted, his face shining with sweat, blood trailing down his jaw, matting in his hair. Slade stalked forward a step. Another. Through the door, he levelled the arrow at the soldier holding his sword to Dick’s throat. Slade bared his teeth, and ground out two words. ‘Drop it.’

The soldier didn’t move. His eyes creased, as if he might to laugh at this one miserable idiot, stupid enough to think he could kill them all with one arrow. But then his eyes darted to Ra’s. Back up to Slade. Back to Ra’s.

‘If you’re looking for who’s in charge,’ Slade growled, ‘you’ll find him pinned there on the floor.’

He tilted his head towards Damian, who finally stilled.

Dick could almost hear the panic whirring through the soldier’s head. Had Ra’s ever announced a successor besides Damian?

No one moved. No one _breathed_.

Then the soldier’s sword drifted slowly from Dick’s throat—and crashed to the floor.

Hands loosened around Dick’s body, and Selina was talking, and Damian was being pulled to his feet, and there were so many voices gabbling words Dick couldn’t understand, and Ra’s was just lying there and not moving and _bleeding_—

Dick stumbled a step, and Slade lowered his bow and grabbed him pulled him close. Dick drew a breath and smelled sweat and blood, but he felt _warmth_. The sharp, prickling pain in his soul mark cooled and eased, and suddenly it was feather-soft.

And he was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title of this chapter, there is more to come. I need to write Slade and Dick's happy ending, of course. :)


	28. Vows

Dick leaned against the doorway, smiling. ‘You suit yellow.’

Slade didn’t flinch. He must’ve heard Dick coming. Hunched at the end of his temporary bed in the guest quarters, he turned to Dick with an expression like granite. The laces of his breeches were tangled between his fingers and his hook.

‘Struggling?’ Dick pushed off the doorframe, stepped inside and knelt at Slade’s feet. He unwound the laces from Slade’s fingers, tugged them off his hook, and smoothed them into a neat knot.

Slade scratched his chin with his hook. ‘I don’t need to be babied.’

‘I know.’

‘I prefer you taking my clothes off.’

Dick smirked, reaching next for Slade’s untied doublet. ‘Later.’

Despite his comment about the yellow, Slade’s doublet was mostly black, striped with grey on the sleeves. Gold trim circled the collar, waist and cuffs, creating the signature Gotham colour scheme. In comparison, Dick’s primrose-yellow doublet was positively garish. But if there was ever a day to wear nauseatingly Gotham colours, it was today.

‘There.’ Dick tied off the doublet at Slade’s throat.

He started to draw his hands away, but Slade caught one of them and held it to his face. His beard was scratchy-soft, neatly trimmed. Slade turned his head and kissed Dick’s palm. Then he bent lower, and pressed his lips to the soul mark on Dick’s wrist.

Dick shivered. Sparks rippled up the length of his arm. ‘You’re trying to distract me.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Slade’s breath fluttered over Dick’s skin, his beard tickling the sensitive splashes of colour. ‘It’s working.’

With a heroic force of will, Dick pulled his arm away. ‘They’re waiting for us downstairs.’

Slade huffed. ‘Fine.’

As he stood, and Dick jabbed him in the ribs. Then he looped his arm through Slade’s and led him to the door.

‘You miserable bastard. Anyone would think you didn’t want to marry me.’

* * *

In the throne room, Dick’s doublet didn’t seem half so garish. He blended into the golden dresses and yellow garlands of flowers. Buttercup ribbons festooned the doorways; honey-gold cloths draped over the tables. Coming into the room from the grey stone corridor gave the impression of stepping out of a cloudy day into sunshine.

Dick didn’t remember most of the words he repeated, but he remembered the hardness of the stone floor as he knelt in front of Bruce, Slade at his side, and the low, warm hum of Slade’s voice, and the tightness of the ribbon as Bruce tied their hands together.

And then they were married, and for the first time that day Slade’s scowl softened as he drew Dick up into a kiss.

Next thing, Dick was moving through the room, floating from one person to the next, wine tipping from his goblet as Jason smacked him on the back, laughing too loud even for the busy, noisy room. Damian sat with him through the feast, grinning like a shark and making jabs at Slade through each delicious course.

Weary shadows bruised Damian’s eyes. His throne in Nanda Parbat claimed, he’d barely been home for months. Jason stuck with him, giving advice, and deterring anyone who thought their new, young kind might be an easy target. Letters flew back and forth between Damian and Bruce, as they painstakingly united Gotham and Nanda Parbat.

Across the room, an entourage of Damian’s advisors mingled with Gotham’s nobility, exchanging wary smiles and clinking their wine goblets together.

* * *

Late in the night, Dick finally caught Bruce sitting alone.

‘I wanted to thank you.’ Dick slipped into the chair beside Bruce.

Bruce raised his goblet. ‘It’s a good wedding.’

‘Not just that.’ Dick gestured across the tables, where Slade was locked in an arm wrestle with Jason. Their faces contorted as they wavered back and forth. ‘You’ve always been very … accepting. About Slade, I mean.’

Bruce set his drink down, frowning. ‘You thought I wouldn’t be?’

‘He was Ra’s al Ghul’s mercenary. He _shot_ me. He took me hostage.’ Dick winced, his stomach tightening. ‘Honestly, I expected you to kill him on sight. I never thought you’d forgive him.’

Raising his eyebrows, Bruce leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh, I don’t forgive him. Not for an instant. But he’s not an _absolute_ bastard.’

‘Just mostly a bastard?’

‘Exactly.’ Bruce smirked. ‘Just mostly a bastard.’

Dick frowned. ‘But then … why? Jason nearly killed Slade on sight. I think Damian might still try and kill him, given half the chance.’

Bruce gave Dick a small, weary smile. ‘Jason and Damian have never had a soul mate.’

His gaze drifted away, and landed on Selina. In the centre of the room, she danced with Tim, wincing and laughing when he stepped on her toes. Neither of them seemed very much in time with the music, and neither of them seemed to care. Beside them, Harley and Ivy skipped and swirled in perfect unison, only stopping to laugh and wave off Tim's apologies when he stumbled into them.

‘Selina’s not like Slade,’ Dick said. ‘She’s … well, she’s perfect. She was always the perfect queen for Gotham.’

Bruce chuckled. ‘I never told you how we met.’

Across the room, Selina twisted under Tim’s arm. He was tall enough now that she didn’t need to duck. When she held Tim at arm’s length, he rolled his eyes but twirled obediently. Selina laughed.

‘I thought you met at some feast with the noble families,’ Dick said.

‘Actually, we did meet at a feast,’ Bruce said. ‘In my bedroom.’

Dick shut down the mental image even as it began to form, before it caused lasting damage. ‘Bruce, you don’t have to—’

‘She snuck in through my window. She was robbing me blind.’

Dick stared. ‘She … pardon?’

‘Selina was a thief.’ Bruce chuckled. ‘She snuck into parties and robbed the hosts while they were distracted. I happened to walk in on her. I’ll never forget the look on her face—she was frozen like a startled cat, jewels spilling out of her hands. I went to grab her. She shoved me back, and … well.’ He rubbed his collarbone, where Dick had seen the soul mark before: a leaping green-eyed cat curled around a bat in flight. Bruce smiled ruefully. ‘The point is, I know how much a soul mate can surprise you.’

He stood, clapped Dick’s shoulder, and swept around the table to take Selina for the next dance. Tim backed away, sagging in relief.

Across the room, Slade finally slammed Jason’s hand into the table.

* * *

It was long past midnight before Dick staggered upstairs, his arm around Slade’s waist and his head pleasantly fuzzy from Bruce’s best wine.

He toppled backwards into the enormous bed that’d been his since childhood. A puff of clean linen scent filled the air and he sighed, stretching out across the cool, soft sheets. The bed creaked as Slade sat on the end, bending to tug off his shoes. Dick closed his eyes, sinking into the blissfully soft bed.

The mattress shifted as Slade stood back up. ‘Don’t fall asleep.’

Firm hands tugged Dick’s boots off, then his socks. Dick giggled, drunk and silly. Then he gasped as Slade gripped his ankle, and pressed his thumb into the sole of Dick’s foot. Slade turned his thumb in slow, hard circles. Dick tensed, then sagged, moaning softly. He hadn’t noticed until now how much his feet were throbbing. It’d been a long day. A long, perfect day.

‘If you keep that up, I’m definitely going to fall asleep,’ Dick murmured.

‘Hmm.’ Slade set Dick’s foot down. His hand glided up the inside of Dick’s leg, past his knee, brushing over his thigh. ‘I’ll move somewhere more sensitive.’

Dick tilted his head back, breath hitching. But Slade stopped just short of his crotch, leaving Dick’s skin tingling, blood pulsing in his cock. Slade slid his hand back down again, stopping at Dick’s knee to squeeze.

Dick sighed. ‘You love to torment me, don’t you?’

‘You made me sit through that goddamn party—’

‘—Our _wedding_—’

‘—so let me enjoy this.’

Slade shifted up the bed and straddled Dick’s hips, smirking. Dick sat up, buried his fingers in Slade’s hair, and wiped that smirk away with a kiss. Slade’s lips parted and his tongue flashed across Dick’s lips. Dick moaned. He curled his fists in Slade’s hair. Slade twitched and hissed and didn’t draw back but retaliated, biting sharply on Dick’s lip.

Dick flinched, gasping. Then he tugged the laces of his jerkin, working them loose, and dragged it off over his head. He wriggled out his shirt, then reached to undress Slade. The room was soft and hazy and he warm and clumsy and he needed Slade’s skin against his, Slade’s mouth on his mouth, Slade moving inside him. His soul mark burned.

He dragged Slade down on top of him, falling into sheets as soft and cool as clouds, clinging to Slade’s body. Slade bowed his head to press soft, slow kisses up the column of Dick’s throat and Dick writhed. He was hard already, aching. He pushed his hips up into Slade’s. Slade sighed, then pressed his knees between Dick’s and parted them, levering Dick’s legs open. Dick moved without resistance, then tilted his head as Slade lapped at the soft, sensitive skin under his jaw. He slid his hands down Slade’s body, gripping his hips to pull him down harder, rolling up into him.

And then Slade was peeling Dick’s breeches off, and stepping back to struggle out of his own. As he clambered back over Dick’s body, Dick sighed, arching up, aching for pressure and warmth and friction. He crossed his ankles behind Slade’s back, drawing him in.

Dipping his head, Slade breathed against Dick’s ear, ‘I haven’t given you your wedding present yet.’

Dick laughed. ‘Wedding present?’

‘You’re going to like it.’

Slade drew back again and Dick groaned, falling back against the pillows. Slipping off he bed, Slade padded across the room to the small trunk of his own belongings.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Dick eyed the hard planes of Slade’s back as he bent over the trunk, then let his eyes slide down to the curves of his thighs and ass. Biting his lip, Dick slid a hand down his body and curled his fingers around his cock. Breath shuddering, he curled up his knees. Precome beaded at the tip of his cock and he swiped his thumb over it, shivering as he spread the slickness over the head.

Slade finally turned. He stopped, his single eye travelling down the length of Dick’s body. His lips parted, and a flash of warmth over Dick’s skin.

And then Dick glanced down, and saw the bottle in Slade’s hand.

_Oil._

Dick dropped back on the bed, laughing.

Slade crawled over him, bending to trace his tongue over Dick’s throat; to nip at his earlobe. ‘I can put it back if you want.’

Turning his head, Dick pressed a kiss into Slade’s beard. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Slade chuckled the sound reverberating against Dick’s chest. Sitting up, he uncorked the bottle, tucked it under his elbow and dribbled the oil over his fingers. Cool drops hit Dick’s stomach and he flinched, but then Slade set the bottle down and curled his warm, slick hand around Dick’s cock. Dick groaned, throwing his head back. With the oil, Slade’s fingers were silk-soft, every stroke gliding over his skin. Slade nudged Dick’s knee with his elbow and Dick spread his legs, shivering. He gasped as Slade’s fingers slipped down, probing softly at his ass. A finger slipped in, slow and easy, and it was nothing like the dry pressure he’d felt before. Dick curled his back, reaching down to toy with his own cock as Slade pressed in another finger, and another, stretching him open, pumping with a steady, even rhythm.

‘I’m ready,’ Dick whispered.

‘You can go a little longer.’

Slade spread his fingers and his Dick keened, arching his back. Panting, Dick writhed, shivers racing over his skin with each slide of Slade’s fingers, with each tug of his hand.

‘Any longer and I’ll come.’

‘So take your hand off your cock.’ But Slade drew his fingers out, chuckling when Dick whined.

He straightened, and reached for the oil again, drizzling it over his cock. Dick whined again at the sight, Slade’s cock flushed and hard and glistening with oil. Slade smirked, sharp and criminal, and ran his fingers over his cock to spread the oil, agonisingly slow.

Dick shivered. ‘_Slade—_’

A soft laugh, and Slade shifted closer pushing Dick’s knees up and apart. Dick closed his eyes and sank into the cushions. How long had he been gasping for breath? His skin burned, damp with sweat, and his soul mark throbbed and prickled

Blunt pressure, and then an ache, and then Slade was inside him, stretching him, filling him. Dick groaned and tensed and shuddered. Slade rocked his hips and Dick whined, reaching up to grip Slade’s body. Slade ground down into him, slow at first and then faster, building to a pace that made Dick gasp and moan and writhe. The room blurred and fizzed with sparks, and Dick was hot and tight and aching, and close and close and _close_—

Slade gripped Dick’s hand, flipped it over, and pressed a hard, open-mouthed kiss to his soul mark. Dick shrieked; he swore he felt the strands of the feather shift under Slade’s tongue, the sharpness of the arrowhead biting into his skin. He came, and felt like he was exploding out of his skin. The room was still spinning when Slade gripped Dick’s hips and shuddered, gasping as he came himself.

They curled together under the sheets, Slade’s arm a heavy weight over Dick’s chest, as if he were afraid Dick would get up in the night and flee.

But this wasn’t Nanda Parbat. There was no collar around Dick’s throat. Tomorrow, Dick would wake up sticky and aching, exhausted, head pounding from the wine. But tonight was warm and soft and perfect, and he was safe with his soul mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. :)
> 
> Thank you everyone so much for reading, and especially if you stuck with me through the lockdown writer's block blues.
> 
> The prompts for [SladeRobin Week 2020](https://sladerobinweek.tumblr.com/post/624193631557926912/hello-all-weve-finished-counting-your-votes-and) are now out, so I'm planning what to write for that. If you have any headcanons, scenes, ideas, etc. you'd like me to try and sneak into that, feel free to send them over. :D I'm not totally sure what the plot/setting will be yet, but I'm leaning toward that arranged marriage prompt ...
> 
> In the meantime, I'll have another Sladin fic out starting next Sunday to tide us over. :D
> 
> Much love! <3


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